


Balaur

by two_ff



Series: The Heart of a Young Dragon [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Children, F/M, Genetics, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy Health Issues, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rated for Content, Recovery, Relationship Issues, Relationship Problems, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt, Trust Issues, Unplanned Pregnancy, rated for later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/two_ff/pseuds/two_ff
Summary: There are few things as strong as the heart of a young Dragon...





	1. Post-War Transition

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of HP nor do I profit in any way from these missives.

Descending the steps to the Burrow before first light required stealth. Her magic, always an anchor when life got dicey and dangerous, betrayed her now and she knew better than to apparate in the crooked building lest she re-materialize in a wall — or worse, in the room Ron and Harry shared these past three months. The Weasleys took solace in her insistence on returning to Hogwarts to complete her education. When the Order rescued her, that had been her intent. But wars never end neatly; at their end one discovers that some friends are friends, some friends are cowards, some enemies are arch enemies while other enemies…

 

Her signature planning skills still worked, logic kindly not abandoning her after her capture and ordeal, and her ability to shove warehouse loads of book and belongings into small purses meant she’d not have to impose on Minerva McGonagall for access to her trunks. All this she gave silent thanks for as her foot touched down solidly on the main floor of a place that could’ve been home but for the war and Voldemort. Her plan, because Hermione Granger always had a plan, returned her to England in ten years or so. The trials should be over by then — legal and emotional — and the pressure to disgorge her life for others to pick through would be gone… hopefully. Her focus on those thoughts distracted her enough to miss the sympathetic gaze aimed her way from the no-longer elongated dining table.

 

“I wanted to say goodbye before you left.”

 

Molly Weasley closed the small distance between them to warmly embrace her adopted daughter.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’re leaving before the others start knocking about. Haven’t eaten a morning meal in two weeks. I understand, dear.”

“How did you know?” the startled and shamed Gryffindor asked tearfully as she allowed herself to be steered to the more comfortable sofa near the front door.

“Come now, Hermione. I’m a mother seven times. I’m guessing it’s not Ronald’s child. No…,” Molly whispered not unkindly, “you’d not feel compelled to leave if Ron were the father. Were you raped, child?”

 

The brains of the trio considered this — was taking her unwilling body, each time Greyback threatened to rape her, mercy? Did his restraint — never taking unless Greyback or another Death Eater approached her first — prove he’d done what he could to protect her, fully accepting what was happening to her at his doing? Did keeping his parents alive balance out the grievous impact he’d made on her life?

 

“N-N-No…,” she shuddered at the nightmare images in her mind, “if not for him, Greyback would have gladly defiled me.”

“He was your first?”

 

Staring at her hands, Hermione plotted how to apparate away from that question, from the reality that no man would have her unblemished and she’d never give a husband her first child.

 

“You should tell Ronald, dear. I know he can be a bit of a hothead but deep down he loves you and would accept the child.”

“Not this one. He will look like his father and Ron will hate him. And me.”

 

The experienced mother considered this as she rubbed tight, soothing circles into the young mother-to-be’s tension stiffened back.

 

“Give him time. Keep your plans open for a return. I have something for you,” Molly called out as she rose and made her way to that impossible ancient cupboard that held the Weasley’s only dishes. A drawer slid open with less noise than its age justified and a small burlap bag met Molly halfway to her destination. She returned to the sofa to place the bag in Hermione’s shaking hands.

“Wh-Wh-What’s this?”

 

The bag clinked lightly upon settling.

 

“The twins ‘borrowed’ 1000 galleons from Harry to open the shop — which Harry would never allow them to repay. This is…”

 

The hitch in Molly’s voiced stayed her words. Not two moths had passed since Fred’s death in the war and since the realization hit that George’s very existence would always remind Molly of who was missing.

 

“I told George that I would make sure Fred’s half of the money went to good use.”

“You didn’t tell him!?”

 

A comforting smile accompanied the pats of Hermione’s shaking hands.

 

“No, dear. I won’t speak of it until you do. Take this —”

 

Hermione twice tried to force the bag back onto Molly’s lap, ashamed that she’d become a charity case to a family with so little themselves.

 

“Take this, Hermione. It will be some time before you find work without your NEWTs and you’ll need more time away to care for that child after its birth. 500 galleons [£2500] will keep you both from poverty and keep my silence.”

 

Finally able to look at her surrogate mother, Hermione bathed in the accepting smile she found.

 

“One last thing —” and with a flourish Molly waved her wand across Hermione’s wrists and in front of her flat belly. On the wall of the kitchen two new names appeared on the clock that announced every hour the welfare of everyone Molly and Arthur cared for: “Hermione” and “Balaur”, the latter’s name disillusioned from anyone without knowledge of Hermione’s war wound.

 

Neither woman — for, indeed, the war made Hermione a woman well before she’d expected to be one — noted the shimmer on the stairs, indicating an observer hidden under the remaining useful Hallows of the Peverell brothers.

 

* * *

 

The letters lay adjacent to the plates after Molly set the table. One for herself and Arthur, one each for her sons and daughter. One for Harry and one for Ron. The last were the thickest.

 

Before stepping into muggle London for what might be the last time, Hermione detoured to Gringotts to withdraw half her meager savings and to rent owls to deliver her last two missives: one to Headmistress McGonagall and one to her child’s father. 

 

Thanks to Molly’s misleading promise, Hermione need not have explained her withdrawal to her favorite teacher; Molly and Minerva feared this outcome when she’d been captured and prepared accordingly. A fortnight after Hermione’s rescue, Molly went straight to Dumbledore’s portrait with her suspicions. Thus the 100 galleons Hermione’s passbook indicated as a balance grew to 25000 galleons [£125,000] within 3 weeks of her safe return, a gift and an apology from the portrait of Albus Dumbledore for stealing her childhood year after year. The stunned Gryffindor would have protested longer but muggle transportation in Britain waited for no one and she, as the cliche went, had a plane to catch. The goblins held no love for the only vault thief to ever make it into **_and_** out of their institution alive — not to mention stealing a fully-trained watch-dragon. Griphook (the only teller who would service her transaction) grunted and snarled his way through her transfer of funds to the bank branch in her new locale; her account balance qualified her for her own vault.

 

The more important owl winged its way to Wiltshire carrying an explanation, a release and a gift. The theft of her childhood in steady doses since she’d helped Harry break the law by helping Sirius, prepared Hermione to move through her current situation with less angst than most not-yet 18 years olds would. Voldemort caused many wars to be fought simultaneously — wars between ethnic groups, wars between classes, wars between magicals and non-magicals and wars within families. Sitting in Heathrow with her nausea-taming salt biscuits, Hermione considered the trade of her innocence for the lives of a family. Did they deserve to die out when a solution lay at hand? Did his actions, given her unwillingness to betray the Order, save her life? As she boarded a plane, not for the States but for a small town on the eastern side of the continent, the pragmatic war victim reinforced her pretense that it was all behind her.

 

Back at the Burrow, shock and frustration worked its way round the rectangular table.

 

“Molly — do you know anything about this?” Arthur Weasley asked in an apprehensive timber as he waved his personal letter at her.

 

Hermione’s demeanor as the days after the war moved on could not be mistaken for “getting over it” and Arthur knew it. 

 

“Luv, leave it for now. She’s been with Harry at every step. She’s muggle-born —”

“What’s that got to do with it!?” Ron shouted at his mother.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Ronald Bilius Weasley, or you’ll vomit slugs until you find yourself in N.E.W.T. classes at Hogwarts. She’s had no preparation for the ways of the magical world. The first magical fairy tale Hermione read turned out to be real and **deadly**. She needs time away to get her bearings. Leave her be; she’s on the clock now — you can see to her that way. And the same goes for you, Harry James Potter. Tuck that hero’s cape of yours in your trunk and leave her alone. She’ll contact us all, I’m sure, in her own time.”

 

Levitating plates of sausages and eggs to the table, Mother Weasley pretended not to see the angry expressions or the sadness. Nor did she acknowledge Harry’s tears or Ginny’s lack of surprise at the news of Hermione’s disappearance.

* * *

 

In the dining hall at Malfoy Manor, three uneasy wizards picked at their gourmet meals, unaware of the bomb winging its way to them on vellum soft enough to diaper a baby. Having spent the summer thus far under house arrest or in court, the tenuous hold on civility and decorum each feigned required maximal effort to sustain. 

 

Lucius Malfoy awaited trial. The “worst” of Voldemort’s followers would be tried last. Lucius accepted this inevitability with style and trepidation: hosting the worst evil ever known to Britain probably qualified him for such treatment.

Three week ago Narcissa escaped Azkaban’s clutches with six months supervised probation when Harry Potter testified (at Hermione’s urgings) that Lady Malfoy (née Black) had lied to the strongest _Legillimens_ known to the wizarding world and saved his life. The transcript of the Savior’s testimony, printed word for word in the Quibbler and the Prophet, flipped public sentiment almost instantly. Instead of the haughty, pure-blood supremacist, Britain’s magical citizens saw a mother desperate to save her family yet unwilling to sacrifice the Chosen One to do so. 

Turning the tide of sentiment saved Draco’s life; the public held little sympathy for junior Death Eaters — not after a 19-year-old Marcus Flint declared himself “ _Toujour Pur_ ” while standing atop the defendant’s table in the Wizengamot and set himself on fire when his verdict was handed down. In a closed trial (because he’d been underaged during the war), classified testimony — kept secret to protect the witnesses — filled in the gaps about “What Draco did during the war”. In the end, Draco’s complete absence of arrogance and apparently genuine remorse earned him three years probation supervised by the first of the Ministry’s new hires — house elves with no families to work for or who were emancipated during the war by Order members. To Draco’s right, at a small table for his use, Kreacher — formerly a possession of the Black family and Harry Potter — ate his lunch; his partner Peepers slept in Draco’s suite until his own shift came due in seven hours. At no time since the trial had Draco been truly alone; close to 36 months lay ahead before he could be.

 

As was his responsibility, Kreacher intercepted the owl that rocketed towards Draco and retrieved the letter. Tasting a small piece of each page, Draco’s probation officer confirmed that no poisons had been used. By the last page, he knew he needn’t have bothered. Kreacher lived with Hermione Granger for months during the war; she’d never harm someone indirectly. The Black family’s former house elf’s attempts to rid her from his beloved Grimmauld Place failed to provoke unkindness from her. In the end he’d grudgingly respected her as someone of special breeding (if not quite the quality of a pure-blood). Whatever the letter said (and he hadn’t read it as he tasted it) would upset the Malfoy household again. Tumult seemed to be scheduled daily.

 

“For you, young sir,” the little elf announced formally despite their relative positions; Kreacher controlled Draco now, not the reverse.

“Thank you,” the young man spoke absently while he unfolded a very long letter written in shaky script.

“Draco?…” his mother enquired.

 

Flipping impatiently to the last page, Draco confirmed his worst fears.

 

“It’s from Hermione Granger.”

 

Twisting out of his chair the Malfoy heir apparated to his suite to read the correspondence privately, Kreacher on his heels.

 

Stretching out on the divan adjacent to his bedroom fireplace, Draco unfolded the sheets again and began…

> _Dear Draco,_
> 
> _I’ve composed this letter many times in my head and yet I find myself shaking as I write. The war is not yet over for me as you’ll understand shortly. I’m leaving Britain, possibly for good, but I wanted to clear the air between us. I owe you my life, a debt I can never repay, and I wanted to let you know that I see the “other” Draco within you and hope you’ll get to know him better._
> 
> _First, thank you for not identifying me when we were captured with Griphook and for not letting Greyback violate me. The Order forced Veritaserum on Dolohov to get information on my whereabouts and he revealed Voldemort’s intent to have that horrid werewolf turn me. He also said you “volunteered” — I believe his words were “never seen a young’un so grim about puttin’ it to a nice piece of ass like Granger”. You didn’t want to do it. Despite the location and the audience, you were very gentle. I avoided most of the injuries found on rape victims but you didn’t escape them — make no mistake, Draco; you were raped by Voldemort just as I was. You were forced to have sex with me. That’s what I testified to at your trial._
> 
> _You’re not supposed to know this, but your father fought to keep you from taking the mark — until they threatened to turn your mother into a pure-blood Death Eater breeding factory. Voldemort had Snape investigating Muggle infertility treatments to increase the chances of twins or triplets in pure-blood families after the war. There’s no doubt, according to Dumbledore’s portrait, that Molly and Ginny would’ve met the same fate as me had the Dark Lord won. When your father didn’t immediately present you, your aunt Imperious’d you both and you were initiated. That’s why you have no clear memory of your branding; it only comes out in your nightmares._
> 
> _I dread telling you this but I dread you finding out and confronting me when I’m least prepared. I’m pregnant; a bit beyond two months by the time you get this letter._
> 
> _I struggled for weeks with what to do until I saw you in court. You’re as much a casualty of the war as I am. I decided this baby doesn’t deserve to die because it was conceived without the consent of either parent. I’m well aware you’d never have consented to having a child with me so I’m taking the baby somewhere far from the Malfoy name and influence. When you marry and have an heir, you need not worry that our “dirty little bastard” will pop up to ruin your new start in life. I would never hurt you in that manner. This letter formally releases you from all parental and financial responsibility. There’s no need for communications between us except in the most extreme situations. In the event of my death you will be notified of the child’s location and key details of our life; it’s your choice whether to do anything with that knowledge. Molly and Arthur Weasley have been named godparents and will have custody if I die._
> 
> _I want you to know I harbor no ill will against you, Draco. What happened between — and to — us is part of war. I will always be grateful that you chose to protect me despite our differences — not that it’s necessary, but I forgive you and I insist you forgive yourself. I heard you screaming on those nights when you fell asleep next to me. Your life these last few years has held far more danger than mine. This child is not so awful an outcome that I would hate you for it. It’s a reminder that I’m still human and still alive, thanks to you. When you awake in terror, please know that there is someone who forgives and thanks you for being your better self when it mattered._
> 
> _I wish you well as your life moves on. I hope your family finds peace and healing in the new wizarding world._
> 
> _Hermione Granger_
> 
>  

Three attempts to hurl this latest disaster into his fireplace failed because his magic wouldn’t allow it. A stare at his own palm told him Hermione carried a son — the magical birthmark indicating an heir had been conceived added one more scar to a body he glamoured every day. The slight “M” in the webbing near the junction of his thumb and index finger would soon broadcast to his parents that the Malfoys no longer remained “ _Toujour Pur_ ”.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Stepping off the puddle-jumper aircraft at Tulcea Airport, Hermione bolted towards the vomit comet’s landing gear and threw up on the tarmac. Turbulence, tiny seats and unfamiliar smells kept her belly churning during the too-long 50-minute flight from Bucharest. Another 22 miles of road separated  the intrepid Gryffindor from her final destination. Thanks to Dumbledore’s generous and unexplained gift, she could afford to find a modest hotel while she searched for affordable rental accommodations and a position in one of Babadag’s magical businesses. The thought of being jammed in a van on a narrow road as the bus stopped at every tiny hamlet forced her to reconsider her plan. Acceding to her baby’s need for calm and food, Hermione made her way to the airport’s customer service counter to change her ground transportation plans. Thank Merlin her parents had insisted she get her Muggle driving permit after fifth year. 

Distracted once again with mental updates to her _alternate_ alternate plan, she shrieked in terror as two burly arms lifted her from the terra firma inside the small airport building.

 

“Let me **_GO_** — _Charlie!?!?!?_ ”

“In the flesh! Welcome to Romania.”

 

Tanned — and, in some cases, _burned_ — from his work with dragons, Hermione stared in shock at a familiar face this far from her former life.

 

“Hold still —” he instructed and a charm tingled over her skin.

“Charlie — STOP! I’m PREGNANT!”

 

Too late to prevent his well intentioned spellcasting, Hermione ran a casual finger down her abdomen to check on her baby. For once in the last three weeks the child rested calmly, awaiting some nourishment.

 

“Not to worry, ‘Mione. It’s a translation spell. You and your baby are now fluent in Romanian, Hungarian and Balkan Romani. And I knew you were pregnant.”

 

The grin left her face in a hurry.

 

“Don’t get angry — she was worried you’d be somewhere alone when the baby came.”

 

Tears not completely attributable to her hormones or her predicament welled and spilled, to Charlie’s discomfort. The eldest Weasley son bear-hugged his little brother’s best friend in hopes of preventing a deluge.

 

“She promised she wouldn’t say anything! She **_promised!_** ”

“You know Ginny, always buttin’ in when she should butt out.”

“Ginny???…” the confused Gryffindor uttered between breathy hitches.

“Yeah. Said you spent every morning in the loo after you moved into the Burrow. She gave you a sleeping draught everyday so she could search your things and found the air tickets.”

“ _Plane_ tickets. That sounds like Ginevra.”

“She’s worried about you. So am I. What’re your plans?”

 

With gentle pressure on her shoulders he steered Hemione to an uncomfortable bench under a pitiful fan.

 

“I have a bus reservation to Babadag but I’ve been ill the entire trip; I need to eat something.”

“What a coincidence! I’ve just moved into the town myself. Since you’re going my way, can I offer you a lift?”

 

Charlie snagged her a chilled Socată, the popular elderberry soft drink with light carbonation, from a passing trolley after tossing a knut into a tin box. With a wave, the cap dropped neatly into his palm as he handed over the bottle in hopes of settling her tummy trouble. The stocky ginger laughed easily at his friend’s furtive glances over his public use of magic, fearing arrest by Romanian aurors in her new country. 

 

“Relax. Magic wielders outnumber Muggles 7-to-1 here. No Statute of Secrecy.”

“We’re not in Britain anymore…” she whispered the borrowed literary quote in realization, “are we?”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Time to move on, Charlie,” she replied with a melancholy smile, her fear never more evident.

 

The dragon trainer’s huge hands dwarfed her belly as he gave it an affectionate rub.

 

“You and the little beater are staying with Uncle Charlie. Got us a nice house in town — can’t have Britain’s most famous war hero delivering my niece or nephew in some forest. You can sort the rest when you're able. Let get home.”

 

Standing, he extended a hand to help her up.

 

“I can’t apparate.”

“I have six younger sibs; I know the ‘rules’. You _can_ portkey. Drink this.”

 

Eyeing the suddenly transfigured cup suspiciously didn’t stop her from tipping the contents into her mouth.

 

“Fine. Now wh— ”

 

With his touch to the cup in her hands, Charlie activated their ride “home”.

 

* * *

 

The courage to seek out his child demanded time to arrive and external motivation. The time? Three months after his last encounter with her. The motivation? Narcissa Malfoy’s decision to address her son’s unrelenting depression.

 

Repercussions from the Malfoys’ poor political alignments abated when the Wizengamot  moved up the date for Lord Malfoy’s trial. Molly Weasley and Minerva McGonagall submitted pensieve testimony establishing the threat to the Malfoy family and the fact that Lucius Malfoy raised his wand to no one during the Battle of Hogwarts, his time (like his wife’s) consumed with locating and protecting Draco. In the end, Lucius received five years probation and mandatory community service within the Ministry. The obligatory transfer of Malfoy galleons to worthy causes went without saying.

Such news should have lightened the atmosphere in the Manor, yet Draco’s labored under melancholy and ennui that saw him in bed all day most days and drowning the remainder of his consciousness in fyrewhiskey. When her son’s reclusive absences surpassed his previous record of a fortnight, Narcissa invoked special magic (as Lady of the Manor) to breach the wards on his suite. Draco never stirred from his unconsciousness, trapped in Part 1 of today’s mental matinee: “Death Eaters’ Follies”.

Wandering the room, the youngest of the last two pure-blood Blacks exploited a devoted house elf to get to the bottom of Draco’s mental collapse. Flopping in a chair in tears brought the unsolicited information she needed; the old curmudgeon of an elf could ne’er abide it when one of the Black sisters cried.

 

“He’s not been happy, Miss. Not since that letter from that Mu— Muggle-born.”

“What letter? Do you know where he keeps it, Kreacher?”

“Hides the thing under the mattress, he does. Reads it when he wakes or sobers, Miss. And cries.”

“Could you?… No, I couldn’t ask…”

 

With a snap of his long fingers the purloined letter fluttered over and into the delicate hands of his former mistress. In contrast to her racing heart and head, Draco’s mother read at a measured rate and rose gracefully to join her son at his bedside. Heartsickness near overwhelmed her as she played with his fringe — soothing him as she’d done every night before bedtime and reading the storm of horrors in his mind. Eyes swimming with memories, Narcissa lifted Draco’s left hand in her own and turned his palm heavenward.

 

The “M” formed at her grandson’s conception stiffened her resolve.

 

With a quick goodbye to Lucius and no explanation for her departure, Lady Malfoy announced her intent to “pay a visit on distant relatives” and made her way to the Burrow with an empty vial in her black silk clutch.

 

That Mrs. Arthur Weasley allowed her unannounced visitor through the door at all reinforced the advantages of blood relations — in their family trees the women shared Aunt Lucretia Black (who’d married a Prewitt) and Cedrella Black (Narcissa’s aunt and Molly’s mum-in-law). Unashamed of having the aristocrat in her humble home, Molly showed her “cousin” to the sofa and started a pot for tea. 

 

“I’ve come to discuss a matter that has only today come to my attention.”

 

Molly’s calm silence built no bridge to make this easier.

 

“The matter concerns Draco and Miss Granger. A number of weeks ago, Draco received a letter from her — one I’ve only myself seen today.”

“So he’s the monster who forced that innocent child on her.”

 

The tea was forgotten.

 

In an effort to avoid becoming the second Black sister summarily dispatched by Molly, Narcissa slowly _Accio_ ’d the vial from her purse. As it floated upward, Lady Malfoy pointed her own wand at her own temple; Molly understood and relaxed, removing the implied threat.

 

“Do you have — thank you.”

 

The chipped and well-used memory bowl materialized on the sofa table not quite full of warm water from the crystal spring on the property. Reading Draco’s letter from Narcissa’s memory took Molly only moments; the impact undid her quiet determination and confidence.

 

“I have no doubt —” Narcissa started, staring down at her uncharacteristically nervous hands, “that madman would have turned her or killed her. How she held out during both captures speaks to her strength… as does this letter.”

“Why are you here? She’s gone; I don’t know where and I don’t _want_ to know.”

“My _son_ ,” the cunning Slytherin tried again, the word chosen to craft an impression, “drinks himself into unconsciousness to keep the nightmares manageable. He lies abed the day, barely eating and almost never bathing. This bout of melancholy has lasted nearly 20 days. The ONLY act he performs with daily obsession is to read that letter and to cry until the drinking begins again.”

 

Shock raised Molly’s ginger eyebrows.

 

“Of the many mistakes forced upon Draco by his father…” — with a sigh, the guilty mother continued, “and by me, this ‘act’ haunts him as no other.”

 

The cousin with five living sons felt for the boy suffering from the man’s remembrance of dark burdens.

 

“Lady—”

“Narcissa, please. Or Cissa, if you prefer. We _are_ , after all, family.”

“Cissa, what are you asking? She’s doing well wherever she’s gotten to — you can see by the clock.”

 

On the wall, the insane Weasley Family monitoring system noted Hermione’s location —  “WORK”.

 

“Molly — may I call you Molly?”

 

The owner of the name nodded.

 

“Draco’s been no saint where intimate relations are concerned. We, in fact, cancelled his marriage contract with that Parkinson whore in fear she’d conceive a child out of wedlock to escape Hogwarts. Not the brightest of pure-bloods. He’s never had to force a woman, but I would imagine that being asked to perform sex on a regular basis should not have caused this malady that consumes him… unless he has feelings for her…”

“So he’s willing and able to rape girls he doesn’t care for. And you want my help to let him at her AGAIN for the sake of his sanity? So you don’t lose your _son_?”

 

Not a word came above a whisper, the best evidence that Narcissa’s life lay in the balance.

 

“No-No-No! My point is the act held no enjoyment for him! The other Death Eaters jeered and bullied him about his reticence with Miss Granger; Dolohov led the chorus.”

 

Having forced the truth potion down the vile man’s unwilling throat, Molly knew the truth of that statement.

 

“Miss Granger believes Draco did this to save me. Draco’s guilt and self-loathing prove he did this to save _her_.”

 

Minutes ticked by while Molly struggled with what was right, what was needed and what she preferred to happen. The safe movement of two clock hands from “WORK” to “HOME” brought her back.

 

“I don’t know where she’s gone to and I have no way to contact her. Merlin knows my stubborn sons have sent owl after owl and they’ve all returned with their burdens. Draco will just have to wait until she’s ready.”

 

Tears darkened the cushions of a sofa that had seen better days long days ago.

 

“Draco won’t survive that long… He’s wasting away… Committing slow suicide…”

 

The hand extended to Lady Malfoy’s sleeve-covered arm held compassion in its light grip.

 

“I’m sorry, truly sorry. Your son’s been as much a pawn as the other children in this war. But I don’t know where she is…”

 

A body soundlessly appeared (in sections) on the rickety steps of the tottering house: first the feet and legs, then bits of the middle and sprouts of deep ginger hair and finally the shoulders, arms and face. Harry’s cavalier handling of that invisibility cloak would earn him a stern talking to from the Weasley matriarch.

 

“I know where she is. Put a tracer on her before she left,” Ginevra Weasley announced and inexorably changed Hermione’s life again.


	3. Post-War Communications

In the three months following her son’s conception Hermione stabilized her life and began rebuilding a future — albeit one vastly different than her dreams of 17 years had envisioned. Balaur, the name brought forth when Molly charmed their welfare onto the Weasley clock, proved to be a happy fetus making for an easy pregnancy — except for his size. The young mother never questioned the name, proof in and of itself that pregnancy hormones made women loopy. The Roma mid-witch predicted his birth weight would top ten pounds, a fearful undertaking for a petite witch having her first child — alone. As nothing could be done (she very well couldn't put the child on a diet or stop eating for two), Hermione left that worry for later. 

In the interim she moved into the large farmhouse with Charlie and his partner, Vlad — a burly mountain of a Roma whose quiet demeanor and wicked sense of humor perfectly balanced the zany ginger. Charlie’s connections got her immediate employment as a bookkeeper until Vlad observed Hermione’s skill at charms and potions as she made their house a home, patched them up after dragon taming “accidents” and prepared meals for them in self defense. The requests for custom charms and potions started slowly, eventually allowing Hermione to leave her accountancy position entirely and work from home. The gentle giant never mentioned his role in her success, though it became harder and harder to hide as the majority of her first clients were Roma (a persecuted ethnic group that tended to keep to their own). For relaxation there was music on Fridays, easy hiking on Sundays and visitors on Saturdays.

When visitors, not customers, arrived midweek, Hermione’s stability teetered on the brink.

 

“Miss Granger, I’d like to speak with you — if you have the time.”

 

No planet was big enough to escape the Malfoys.

 

“I won’t kill my baby. And the wards on the house won’t allow you to kill him.”

 

It had been Vlad’s idea. He understood how ethnic cleansing worked.

 

The door slowly swung towards closing until Hermione noted two important things —the look of horror on the aristocrat’s face at the accusation of possible infanticide and the tears running unabashedly down the grandmother's cheeks.

 

“While we did not protect you as we should have, please know I could _never_ murder my grandson.”

 

The door reopened in small creaks. Narcissa’s knowledge made an impression.

 

“I won’t give my son up.”

“You’re his mother, Miss. Granger. I wouldn’t expect you to and I won’t ask you to.”

“What about your son? I’m sure he isn’t prepared for a mudblood to carry his eldest child.”

 

The flinch on the haughty woman’s face moved the door open a tad faster.

 

“My son is why I’ve come. May I speak with you? Please?”

 

Hermione moved away to leave space for what turned out to be two “guests”; behind Narcissa Malfoy came an unusually quiet Molly Weasley. 

 

“Hello, dear. Oh! Look at you! He’s a healthy one I’ll bet,” and the mother of six living children had her hands on Hermione’s modest bump the instant she crossed the threshold.

“He’s quite active; must sense your mood. I — We’re sorry to arrive unannounced but old Errol nearly killed himself trying to get to you.”

“The post have to be addressed a certain way to reach me.”

 

The wards only recognized mail for Hermione labeled “Virator Fermă” — “Messenger of the Grange”.

 

“Ginny told you where I went?”

“Don’t be angry, Hermione. I promised not to come unless there was an emergency. After speaking with Narcissa…” Molly hesitated with a pensive glance at her traveling companion, “I’ll leave you two. When will Charlie and Vlad be back?”

 

Charlie hadn’t mentioned his mother’s knowledge of his sexual preference. Molly read her hesitancy to expose more than Charlie and Vlad wanted exposed about their private lives.

 

“He’s my son; mothers keep an eye on their children’s welfare no matter how old they get. When you hold that little one in your arms, you’ll understand. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, getting dinner on,” and the motherly whirlwind left without further ado.

“I can’t foresee the emergency that would require contact with me, Lady Malfoy.”

 

Unwilling to waste an instant when she could get bounced out the door on her arse at any moment, Draco’s mother went straight to the point.

 

“Draco’s dying, Miss Granger.”

“Not to be insensitive,” the formerly compassionate Gryffindor began, “but what does that have to do with me?”

“I will not make light of what’s happened to you, although I will not lie and say I’m unhappy to gain something as precious as a grandson from all your misery and pain. But my son suffers as well. Did you mean what you said in that letter?”

 

Hermione considered for more than a few minutes whether she’d written the note for Draco or for herself. In the end, she sussed out her own true motives and answered. 

 

“I wrote that letter for Draco. He was trying to protect his family.”

“And protect you, Miss Granger. Do you have a pensieve?”

 

Hermione started to rise from the sofa she’d flopped onto; her guest’s hand on her arm stopped what would have been an awkward ascent.

 

“Let me. _Accio Pensieve!_ ”

 

The soapstone bowl floated over to the sofa table and was quickly filled with an _Aguamenti_ charm _._ From her purse, the worried mother retrieved a vial — chock full to the cork.

 

“These are Draco’s memories. Molly and I retrieved them this morning. I’ll leave you to it; it shouldn’t take long.”

 

Elegant as always, Narcissa abandoned the sofa for the window seat facing the lovely front garden. She’d just decided that the forsythia were her favorites when a gasp and a sob drew her back to the sofa.

 

“His depression deepens each day along with his drunkenness. He doesn’t bathe and barely eats. What happened to you… What he _did_ to you he relives every day. Now h-h-he cries because he wants to be a father different than Lucius and he thinks he won’t be.”

“I can’t… I can’t…” Hermione hyperventilated.

“Just speak with him — however you feel safe —”

 

Routine “coming home” noises interrupted Narcissa's well-practiced plea.

 

“Hey, ‘Mione! Smells like Mum’s shep— **_What the fuck is she doing here!?_** ”

“Charlie? Join me in the kitchen,” came from the selfsame room in Molly’s “mother voice”. No child had ever disobeyed that voice and survived unpunished.

“She was _there_! She watched them —”

 

To prevent more harm, Molly rushed from the kitchen, looking to Vlad for help corralling her righteously indignant, ginger-flushed eldest son. A loving but firm hand on his shoulder steered Charlie away from further confrontation. With the commotion contained, Narcissa rewound and replayed her request.

 

“Please, Miss Granger. You uprooted your life to keep your child safe —” 

“I’m his mother! That’s my responsibility — I love him!”

“And I love Draco. He’s killing himself with regret and grief… I don’t want my son to die from despair. Just speak with him, that’s all I’m asking… begging… of you.”

“I need time to think…”

 

Absenting the sofa, the Malfoy and Black matriarch reclaimed her composure. Reaching in her tiny clutch she withdrew a card and passed it to the unsettled war heroine.

 

“Floo me once you decide and we’ll set a time and date; I’d prefer Draco be presentable when you call. Regardless of your choice, you have my deepest gratitude for considering my request; most in your circumstances wouldn’t have. Draco’s correct — you are a remarkable witch.”

 

Hermione tried once more to accompany her “guest” to the door.

 

“Rest while you can. I’ll see myself out — just let Molly know I’ve left. I’m sure she’ll enjoy catching up over dinner.” and with a balletic quarter-turn Draco’s mother apparated from the porch of the farmhouse.

 

Shock from the visit gave Hermione a more arhythmic gait than her expanding belly usually caused as she made her way to the kitchen with no appetite. Charlie bolted from the table to escort her to her cushioned chair.

 

“Is that blonde bitch gone?”

“ _Charlie_!” went round the table very quickly.

“She has no right to bother Hermione — especially with a sprog coming! Vlad, get her a plate. You need to eat, luv.”

“Actually just a cuppa will suffice; I’ll get a nosh later on.” the focus of all the attention deflected.

“Good idea, dear. Best to take things in small steps.”

 

* * *

 

In trite fiction the quietude of a normally chaotic Burrow would be described as the calm before the storm. Cliche’d though the phrase had become by the time Hermione stepped through the floo, she observed no indication of the next traumatic change in her life that would cause said life to imitate fiction; fiction never seemed to “catch up” to her reality.

 

“Mrs. Weasley?”

“Come in, come in! _Goodness_! — that baby’s grown so much since I saw you — what was it… Three weeks ago? Must be almost four months now. Going to be big, this one.” the rock of the Weasley clan gushed in the hug.

“He is and I’m dreading my time,” the normally brave Gryffindor admitted as she made her way to the well-worn sofa.

“Don’t fret over it. It’s good he’s healthy. Have you decided on a name?” 

 

The mother of seven gave Hermione’s tummy an affectionate rub to confirm the child’s welfare herself.

 

“Balaur Baiat. You named him, actually — when you spelled us onto the old clock. I like how it sounds and no one would think…”

 

 _…that he’s Malfoy’s bastard…_ she finished mentally.

 

“I wonder where that name comes from? No one in the family I can think of?”

“Charlie and Vlad told me it’s Romanian. It translates to ‘Dragon’s Egg’ or something similar. Your son expects to have my baby ride his first dragon before he can walk.”

“Better Charlie than the twins or Ron,” Molly countered, as if she still had twins, “Georgie and Freddy would throw the poor child between them while flying their brooms — and your boy would love it and them for the excitement. Ron, Merlin have pity, might drop him. OH!”

 

A shock ran through Hermione’s abdomen as Molly snatched her reddening hand away.

 

“He’s a powerful wizard, this one! Must be the dragon magic in your town. That child spelled me to get me rubbing another spot, cheeky thing.”

“Why so quiet today?”

 

Saturday afternoon at the Weasleys never sounded this empty despite Molly’s promise that her friends and acquired family would have no knowledge of her visit.

 

“Ginny’s at tryouts —”

“I thought she made the team?”

 

The Prophet announced the newest member of the Holyhead Harpys alongside another Golden Trio article speculating on the whereabouts of the muggle-born who’d helped the Chosen One end the occupation of magical Britain.

 

“They’re choosing starters today. Harry and Ron are there. The store’s running a ‘two-fer’ sale — George bragged it was your idea — so he’s busy and Bill’s giving Fleur a break with little Victoire. We’ll have the afternoon to catch up.”

 

Not known for hemming and hawing, Molly plowed into the reason for her invitation.

 

“Have you considered Narcissa’s request?”

 

Hermione’s _Dragon’s child_ radiated small shocks of magic in response to the question regarding his breeder. Draco’s invisible interference in her life had her fighting panic attacks daily. Her new “family” fought each other when they thought she couldn’t hear them, Charlie vowing to dragon-torch the Manor to rid Hermione of this lingering threat and Vlad softly imploring his partner to _think_ whether a father deserved to know his child. 

 

The fiercely gentle Roma reminded his irate ginger boyfriend that were _they_ parents and living in Britain, their rights — and the custody of their _own_ children — could be challenged.

 

> _“This happened to the Roma, amant. They tried to destroy us — taking our_ **_children_ ** _and giving them to ‘good’ non-Roma families to raise. You have to know your own, Charlie…”_

 

 _Amant_ , the most intimate Roma term for “lover”, softened but did not dull Charlie’s hatred of the situation or the man responsible. Hermione tried to avoid the intellectual arithmancy her predicament brought forth: did keeping Draco’s heir from him balance the propitiatory sacrifice she’d made when he’d stripped her of her innocence? 

 

“Do you want to see Draco Malfoy dead?”

 

Weighing the trade-off of “defiler” for “descendant” required frequent recalibration to remove her growing rage at being stuck in a situation where innocents would again be victims. In her mind, _innocence_ died during the war.

 

“No.”

 

Her tiny dragon calmed his magical outbursts.

 

“Do you harbor anger or resentment towards him?”

“Resentment?… No… Bill’s situation ‘educated’ me rather rapidly about lycanthropy. Anger I’m not sure about.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione… Dumbledore and the rest of our lot left this burden on you youngsters. What a muck we made of it all! Neville with no parents. Harry a horcrux and abused by those awful muggles — sleeping under stairs, for Morgana’s sake! My Freddy… The Order should’ve finished it before you or Draco got caught up…”

 

The young versions of themselves moved behind Molly’s staring eyes, guilt obscuring the reality that fate dictated Voldemort’s end, not the efforts of a ragtag group of youths called to “Order”.

 

“You’re not squeamish so I won’t belabor the point. I’ve seen the boy, read his thoughts. Draco won’t last the month without some contact with you. He needs to know you’re better and moving forward. He wants to believe you’ve truly forgiven him but he’s desperate to understand why you would. You can talk to him or not. You’ve earned the right to walk away, my dear. Whatever his reason, what he did violated you in the most shameful manner.”

“What a mess! Shall I trade peace and security for my son with the death of his father at my hands? What would that make _me_ , Mrs. Weasley?”

 

Holding only her hand, Molly gave the adult answer to the recent 18 year old. 

 

“Human, dear. It makes you human.”

 

The desire to run warred mightily with the need to be polite and kind to someone who knew the whole truth and provided emotional support to Hermione and her child. A craftier muggle-born, tempered in the fire of war and rape, shifted mentally through the list of reasons staying on Molly’s good side mattered — a list that would have had only the word “love” on it before Draco shattered her personal security.

 

“What should I do?” 

 

The teapot’s screaming laughter accompanied Hermione’s easy walk to the kitchen table and its easier-to-reach seating.

 

“If you’re up to it, you can floo him from here. He’d know you were at the Burrow and he’d know you weren't alone; I’ll be with…” she trailed off in deference to the tears lazily falling into the beaker before Hermione.

“I want to get this over with. Now. Is that possible?”

“Let’s see.”

 

A hand on her shoulder pushed the pregnant war hero back into her seat to enjoy more tea. Half the beaker disappeared but the moment of truth seemed to arrive in seconds.

 

“Draco and Narcissa are ready.”

 

A casual hand movement and a pinch of floo powder added another tumultuous moment to Hermione’s too interesting life so far.

 

“Narcissa? It’s Molly. Hermione’s here visiting today.”

“Good… afternoon, I guess it is. Miss Granger, I do hope you’re doing well. Draco and I are here together reminiscing about old times. Say ‘hello’, darling.”

 

Facial outlines shifted in the heaped coals of the too-warm Burrow’s multi-purpose fireplace, giving Hermione the opportunity to note how similar the faces of mother and son were and to wonder how much like her rapist her son would look.

 

“Granger. You’re okay?”

 

Molly showed no surprise at the inhalation and exhalation her adopted daughter calmed herself with. What caught her off-guard came from the babe — magic swirled and sparkled like an aura from the child as soon as his sperm donor spoke.

 

“No, Malfoy, I’m not in any sense ‘okay’. But the baby’s healthy and I seem to be as well, so I won’t complain.”

 

Sobbing preceded the change of speakers and silhouettes in the ashes.

 

“We’re glad for that, Miss Granger, and thank you for the call. Molly — we’ll catch up later, if that’s acceptable?”

 

Coded language poorly hid the reasons for the foreshortened “call”.

 

“Let me call you,” Molly wisely suggested, “my house will be quite lively for most of the evening. We’re off!”

 

As the two inhabitants of the leaning house stood, a pot floated over (magically sealed) full of Brown Windsor soup.

 

“The boys will love this and it’s good for that cheeky little one of yours — has a bit of wine to help build the blood. It should travel well by portkey.”

 

The desire to avoid the extended Weasley family’s return couldn’t tamp Hermione’s curiosity to hear Molly’s thoughts.

 

“What do you think happened?”

“Can’t say for sure…” the older woman spoke low and contemplatively as she steered Hermione out the rear door, “If I were to venture a guess, he’s surprised that you were civil. And he wants to be involved with his son. Did you feel the magic from little Bali when Draco spoke?”

 

A woman who loved nicknames christened her unborn son “Bali” as easily as she’d named him on the Weasley clock. Charlie would ensure the ridiculous moniker stuck. “Bali the Beater” was unavoidable now.

 

“I did. I assume it’s some pure-blood failsafe, to ensure they know who fathered the child.”

“It is and it does — never known it to work when the mother wasn’t a pure-blood. Something to consider as you move along, dear.”


	4. Depression in Former Death Eaters

Four weeks and Molly Weasley, tumbling from the floo into the home she made with Charlie and Vlad in Babadag, shepherded in the next crisis.

 

“I promised I wouldn’t bother you but I think you’ll want to know. They’ve taken Draco to St.Mungo’s with alcohol poisoning — I know better; he’s tried to do away himself and failed,” Molly matter-of-factly announced as she shook clinging ash and glowing cinders from her well-worn traveling cloak.

“Is this my fault?” the not-completely-heartless Gryffindor asked, to check her _own_ motives in this mess Voldemort forced on them all.

“ **No** and don’t you go blaming yourself — it’s not good for Bali. I’m headed to hospital. Do you want to come with?” she offered, still beating at pinhole burns discharging streamers of smokey wisps into the room.

 

Grown used to acting when frightened to her core, Hermione’s answer arrived with a grab of her own maternity jumper and a rolling quickstep of her softening curves to the fireplace to prevent herself from coming to her senses and running for cover. Money got Draco admitted to the VIP patient wing in a suite named for his father. The floo disgorged the two women into a sitting room filled with the anger and terror of Lucius Malfoy.

 

“I understand congratulations are in order; I’m to be a grandfather.”

 

Confrontation substituted for greetings and pleasantries with these two. 

 

“ **LUC** — **”**

“It’s alright, Mrs. Weasley. Lucius only lashes out when he’s afraid and not in control. I saw enough of him at the Manor to know. Yes, Lucius. Balaur is Draco’s son.”

“And when, pray tell, were you going to TELL me that you’re carrying MY SON’S HEIR!?”

 

Shoulders relaxing, Hermione slipped easily into her comfortable role of “Mudblood" to his “Death Eater”.

 

“Why would I ever do that? Draco’s **unmarried** ; his WIFE will carry his heir, not me. Your son may have created this child but Draco **won’t** be my son’s **father** and he **won’t** have my son as his **heir**. I’ve seen to that. You’re safe from us and we from **you**.”

 

The intimation behind her statements — that a Malfoy would be raised a bastard and a Granger — outraged her opponent.

 

“Until your ‘blessed event’ concludes there are **exactly** **TWO** Malfoys in this miserable world and **only**   **ONE** Black that matters. I hope your rumored genius can see that I would PREFER the Malfoy line not go **EXTINCT** while I’m **WATCHING**! Draco apparently doesn’t give a damn about either legacy given his recent choices of amusement.”

“Was Draco _Imperious’d_ when he swallowed that poison? I’ve heard Malfoys succumb to that curse rather readily,” — Lucius blanched at the accusation he’d faked being “controlled” a second time.

 

Bellatrix enforced the commitment Lucius denied making the first time around; his psychotic sister-in-law  _forced_ him to complete his pledge of loyalty by offering up his only child to the half-blood maniac “savior” — not by an _Imperious_ , but by threatening lethal harm to her weak-willed nephew. The Malfoy family head found no escape, this time, that didn’t sacrifice his heir and his mate. Weakness and strength emanated from Lucius’ love for Narcissa and Draco.

 

“You impertinent little b—”

 

A dangerously vexed Narcissa Malfoy strode into the sitting room from Draco’s bedside to head-off a life-changing familial estrangement — fully intent on confronting the arse she’d married and still adored. The distraction gave Hermione the opportunity to slip into Draco’s room while all attention focused on the hissing, growling and tut-tutting exchanged between members of the extended pure-blood family.

 

In a corner, Peepers curled himself up, unprepared for this situation and unsure of what to do other than stay close to the probationed convict.

 

Light shadowed the despondent man-child like a proscenium, casting him as the solo character on this surreal stage. Deathly pale and thin, his wheezing chest made the only movement of his emaciated body until the wheezing stopped and he evidenced small but real convulsions. Something blocked his airway.

 

Unsure that his body could handle the _Anapneo_ spell that would’ve been quicker in alleviating the problem (and kept their distance from one another), the ambivalent Gryffindor found herself forced to help when no healers responded to his crisis. Then again, she wasn’t a healer; her compassionate “help” might kill him all the same (unintentionally or not). Angered at the predicaments that seemed to throw them together — and place her rapist repeatedly in her life path — Hermione opted to do the least she could until someone trained in healing arrived. Her athletic baby stilled (for no reason she could fathom) with each step towards Draco, the baby’s magic pulsing outward in an ever-widening protective "bubble" that encapsulated first his mother then his father.

 

The shouted “Get a healer, please!” startled the timid house elf into apparating away from his charge.

 

“How do I rid myself of you permanently, Malfoy…” bounced unkindly against the sterile walls; she regretted the phrasing almost immediately. The once soft-hearted young woman meant him no harm and never would — not even through benign neglect while Draco choked to death in front of her.

 

The vomit bucket flanked his bed, half filled with rancid bile and stomach juices colored by whatever toxin he’d ingested. Working around four months of healthy baby belly meant yanking the patient’s twitching, flailing arm until Draco rolled to the bed’s edge and cleared his airway on his own into the bucket. The sight, sound and vile odor of his sickness emptied her pregnant stomach into the same receptacle before healers finally burst through the door to see to him — followed by the nervous Peepers.

 

From her position at the front of the pack, Molly saw to an ashen Hermione (who gratefully took a chair away from the medical intervention).

 

“Your beside manner stinks, Granger; you know that?”

 

The effort-laden whoosh of words stunned everyone to silence but Hermione and Bali. At the sarcastic ribbing, Draco’s son resumed his usual playground behaviours whilst his mother made an acerbic reply to the critique of her life-saving skills.

 

“No more than your hospitality at the Manor. We’re even, Malfoy. Eat something nutritious and get your lazy arse out of that bed so someone who’s really ill can use it.”

 

A dry chuckle and a coughing fit from the patient put paid to the debt. In less than a year each had saved the other.

 

“Time to get you two home. You and Bali need a good supper,” Molly chided.

 

Smothered by the relieved kisses of his mother and the tearful distance his father kept between them, Draco heard but did not see the quiet departure of Molly and the woman he now believed did not hate him… 

 

..with the dragon child whose compassionate magic saved his father’s soul.

 

* * *

 

Another few weeks cleared more fog from the brains of the principal players in the aftermath of the Dark Lord. Quidditch laid a healing salve on Ginny and Ron — now a Chudley Cannons reserve — in equal measure. The pursuit of Voldemort’s remnant by floo, broom or apparation postponed any resolution to Harry’s bottomless raw wounds acquired from insults inflicted long before the official start of the Second Wizarding War (as the newspapers were already calling it). Thanks to Peter Pettigrew’s treachery and the Dursleys’ abusive guardianship, he’d been a prisoner of the First Wizarding War since infancy. George expanded a business destined to make the Weasleys wealthy. The abandoned twin worked twice as hard, at the shop that sold happiness to others, to honor his perpetual loss and bury his perpetual grief. 

 

In Babadag, Hermione adjusted to the next phase in her unplanned side ramp of a life. Months from her due date she gradually reduced her workload to her regular customers and referred those who pleaded for her talents to other qualified potioneers. At the rate she was learning, she could have sat her Master’s exam in a few months (but for her impending arrival). So she extended her old schedule and filled her new schedule with preparations for her upcoming baby and her upcoming licensing examinations. 

 

Preparation for Bali’s arrival included addressing those open wounds she carried; the time had come to come clean with her war family. She’d yet to retrieve her own parents from Australia and would not attempt to lift those memory spells while gravid. There remained the matter, going forward, of Draco Malfoy. Having accepted Draco as family, Bali forced together two fragile victims of a conflict with too many casualties.

 

Beginning shortly after his discharge from St. Mungo’s, Hermione’d accepted calls in her small suite (consisting of her bedroom with a small sitting area near her fireplace and the attached nursery) to normalize relations with the mercurial junior Lord of the Manor.

 

…....

 

“Shite, Granger, if you get any bigger they’ll have to levitate you to St. Mungo’s — you won’t fit in a floo.”

 

Distrustful of Draco’s undisciplined choices, she’d given him her warded and anonymous floo “address”. Any attempt to come through to her would result in a gruesome death. She initiated no calls his way.

 

“Your mother sympathized when she informed me of your birth weight and scared me senseless — and I’m not going to St. Mungo’s; I'm having the baby here.”

 

Because the coals burned a bright red, Draco’s facial coloring change went unnoticed; his shouting did not.

 

“Are you MENTAL?!?!?”

“I didn’t say I’m having him at _home_ , Malfoy. I’m not returning to England.”

“You will NOT deliver my son in some backwater hovel where the healers still wear masks and shake sticks to ‘cure’ their patients!”

“No —” she shouted back, ignoring the nausea her willful child inflicted on her for fighting with his sire. “If I want him to watch incompetent arses parading around in ‘masks’ whilst shaking their ‘sticks’, I’ll invite you and your father to a Death Eater party! I have no intention of having my personal life — or this ‘situation’ between you and me — bandied about as gossip on every Page 3 in magical Britain!”

 

Unmarked by the silence, she waited him out.

 

“My son could DIE! You **both** —” and he couldn't continue the thought.

“And the same could happen in England. There’re no guarantees; we know that. I’ve done my research —”

“Swot…”

“— I’ll ignore that. I’ve done my research and I’ve made my choice.”

“Will you allow my family healer to attend?”

“On a non-interference basis, I will consider it.”

 

Grateful that she hadn’t hexed him back to Hogwarts, he left unasked the question of who else might attend the birth of the next Malfoy heir.

 

…....

 

“Granger? You don’t sound good.”

“I’m _not_. Bali’s been pummeling my stomach with his feet causing me to be sick all day which means I can’t eat which means he’s hungry and irritated that I’m not solving the problem.”

“You’re the genius of that incompetent trio, do something about it.”

“Don’t you think I’m trying, you arse?!? I’m small-built and he’s troll-sized —”

“Dragon-sized. No son of mine will ever resemble a troll. Malfoy men are too handsome to be mistaken for trolls.”

 

— and she _laughed_. Not falling-over, rib-shaking laughter; just a tinkle of spontaneous giggles he’d never heard from her before.

 

“Well, he’s calming now so I need to go and get something before he starts up again. I don’t think I can get any larger and he’s still months from coming.”

“I’ll ask Armstrong if there’s anything you can do.”

“Armstrong???”

“Family healer. Go eat; we’ll talk later.”

 

In Draco’s bedroom — where communications had just ended cordially after the call, Healer Armstrong reassured Draco that he’d been able to cast the appropriate spells through the floo to confirm the well-being of the next Malfoy heir and to offer his expert opinion that Hermione would not make her due date.

 

…....

 

“Malfoy, I never meant for you to be this involved. I know that this baby keeps you from falling in on yourself emotionally, but… You’ll marry someday and I’m sure your wife won’t appreciate your involvement with your bastard son and his mother. Have you considered that?”

 

Rehearsing the words over and over didn’t diminish the damage Hermione caused.

 

“Can I meet you somewhere?”

“I beg your pardon?” she gaped at the non sequitur.

“I won’t discuss this over a fireplace. Where can we go, someplace you’ll feel safe?”

 

An hour later Hermione fidgeted in a small cafe in Paris. She’d visited the intimate, out of the way but public place on holiday with her parents the summer she’d started Hogwarts. At a table with a vantage point selected to block exit from the front and rear, a hulk of a ruggedly handsome man (sporting a _Disillusion_ ’d face) made himself nondescript as he watched over the witch who’d become family. 

 

Not too long after their arrival at the establishment, a very anxious pure-blood stepped haltingly across the threshold of his postwar life — trailing a very nervous (and _Disillusion_ ’d) house elf (with a surly disposition) who took a seat in the rear of the establishment and stared away any attempt to serve him.

 

“Merlin, Hermione! You’re carrying a two-year-old!”

“It’s nice to see you too — not heaving into a bucket, _Draco_.”

“It’s just… The floo doesn’t show the ‘scale’ of your expansion. Definitely a beater, not a seeker.”

 

Again the music of her laughter lifted him. Bali’s magic hugged his paternal progenitor.

 

“That’s what Charlie said when I was nowhere _near_ this large!”

“Where’s your ginger knight errant? Can’t see you coming alone to be with me.”

“Charlie’s still ‘adjusting’ to your presence in my life; not the best escort in a public place. My safety’s being handled — as is yours.”

“Probation knows no borders. They’ve been decent about it.”

 

Unobtrusively, the waiter glided past with a place service for the nervous blonde and a platter of crudités for the perpetually hungry mother-to-be. Draco gave his desires in French before returning his attention to his “guest”.

 

“Sorry,” she offered as she stuffed her mouth, “can’t wait for you. My baby’s hungry.”

“ _Our_ baby, Hermione…”

 

Twice now the intimacy of first names passed between the very young expectant parents.

 

“Draco, we’re not lovers; we’re not friends. We’re not even true enemies anymore, thanks to Voldemort. I… We don’t have a relationship and I don’t see a basis for one.”

“So you’d keep my son from me?”

 

Reacting to his accusation, Hermione spoke around a mouth full of roughage.

 

“If he wants to know — and you _want_ him to know — about his real father, I’ll tell him. But it has to be _his_ choice — not yours and not mine.”

 

In that unobtrusive way that experienced waitstaff have, their server placed a scrumptious plate before her of simple roast chicken, heady with the aroma of rosemary and basil. Circling quickly, the server’s towel-covered hand lowered a porterhouse steak — every bit of 3-inches thick and so rare that its juices changed the delft china’s windmill decoration from deep blue to a deep magenta — into the empty space in front of Draco.

 

“Excuse me, I didn’t order —” Hermione protested to the back of the retreating waiter.

“I ordered it — takes meat to breed a Quiddith player.”

 

His liberties, taken in her behalf, rocked Hermione back in the high-backed cafe chair.

 

“Why does this _matter_ so much to you!? It’s not as if we’d planned to have this child together. I’d’ve thought you’d feel _relief_ at my distance.”

 

His knife cubed sections of the tender beef several times before he formulated an answer. 

 

“I could ask you why you don’t hate me.”

 

Hermione’s fork landed back on the thick china with a loud *clank*; Vlad stared from his vantage point, searching for signs she’d reached her limit — it’d been nearly two hours.

 

“ _What_!?”

“I don’t stutter. Why don’t you hate me? Why haven’t you hexed me into the Veil?”

“I can’t see what this has to do with —”

“ _Everything_ —” he retorted, as if that single word would retire all of her confusion. “If you’re allowed to forgive me and what I did to you, why am I NOT allowed to care for my son?”

“That’s different. You were protecting your parents.”

“And **_you,_** Hermione. After Bellatrix tortured you… I couldn’t let Fenrir… You did nothing to deserve either...”

“I’m grateful — no, really!” she reiterated when he scoffed aloud. “Fenrir attacked Bill Weasley; he doesn’t turn, but Fleur has her hands full on the full moon. You saved me from a horrible half life. That doesn’t mean you and I have a relationship. My son is the result of _rape_ no matter how well intended; I’m not sure I’m willing to have you in our lives.”

 

A sip of wine lazily passed his lips. A graceful swipe of his own soft lips with his napkin, then a lean forward to wipe a bit of salad dressing from under her nose, preceded his quiet bombshell.

 

“You’ll never get me to say I regret our son or that you’re his mother.”

 

At the other table having to do with dragons of all types, a compassionate giant witnessed Draco’s declaration.

 

…....

 

“You are the most obstinate, defiant, difficult —”

 

Outside the closed oaken door to the study, three nosy adults eavesdropped using three of the newest versions of George and Fred Weasley’s extendable ears, whispering to each other during breaks in the battle on the other side of the door. Inside the closed oaken door at Malfoy Manor, Draco’s nerves set Hermione’s temper on edge. 

 

“ ** _Me_**!? You **DEMAND** I meet you here — where I was **TORTURED** and **_RAPED_** — then you spring this-this… **PHYSICAL** **EXAMINATION** on me! **I won’t _do it_**!”

  

> _“Do you think she’ll agree, Molly?”_
> 
> _“Once he explains, she’ll see reason.”_
> 
> _“He’s upsetting her.”_
> 
> _“If memory serves, my love, you were equally irritating at this point in my confinement with Draco. It’s obvious he cares about them both.”_
> 
> _“Cissa, are you and Molly certain this is the best course? They don’t seem to enjoy each other’s company.”_
> 
> _“Your grandson made the choice, Lucius, not his grandmothers. They’ll work it out for Bali’s sake.”_
> 
> _“And why that ridiculous name, for Merlin’s sake? What spell did you miscast to…”_

 

“Ahem…”

 

The innocent bystander interrupted the volleys.

 

“Should I leave?” Healer Armstrong inquired hopefully.

“YES!” “NO — if you want to see another **knut** from this family!”

“Malfoy, why is this necessary?”

“Because you tell me **NOTHING**  about your welfare other than the completely inadequate ‘We’re fine’ —”

“We _**ARE**_!” she screamed back, tears of frustration lining her cheeks.

 

Her obvious emotional distress lowered the volume and heat in Draco's next verbal blast not one bit.

 

“You **won’t** tell me where you live! You only **speak** with me if I **chase** you down — you go **DAYS** without a word! You’re **enormous** — you look as if you could deliver in the **next 10 MINUTES**! That child’s magic knocks objects off the walls in my presence and **I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCK’S GOING ON**!”

“If I give in — just this once — will it be the end of your meddling in our lives?”

“Not as long as I’m his father.”

“ **You’re _NOT_ his father**!”

“My _son_ begs to differ.”

“It’s _**MY**_ decision who his father is!”

“Afraid not, _Princess_. He’s a Malfoy — his magic’s stronger when we're together and you _know_ it. You need a thorough examination by someone familiar with the Malfoy Bequest. If you’ll stop fighting me on this, I’ll pay Armstrong to answer all your questions until his ears bleed. Is it a deal?”

“He answers my questions **_and_** you come to the Burrow with me on Sunday to explain my condition.”

“Why do those cretins need to know about the Malfoy Bequest?”

“They don’t know I’m pregnant. Only Molly and Ginny. And Charlie, of course. Your role in my ‘condition’ also remains secret, to protect you. They’re the only family I have; it’s time I told them the truth.”

 

The burden she shouldered from the Hobson’s choice laid on him by Voldemort — to violate her himself or to watch her violated twice by England’s most vicious werewolf as Fenrir raped and turned her in a single assault — matured Draco quicker and more effectively every day in her presence.

 

“Did you send them letters like mine?”

 

A nod; then she dropped her chin to her chest in shame at having run away from those she loved. 

 

“Done. Now relax on the divan so Armstrong can earn his money.”

 

An hour saw the very thorough exam finished. Armstrong pronounced all as it should be and predicted she’d deliver in ten — not twelve — weeks.

 

“Do you have any questions, Miss Granger?”

“How big will he be?”

“Between 11 and 13 pounds.”

 

The petite witch winced.

 

“Will I be able to deliver him… you know… _that_ way?”

“Yes, with help from Draco.”

“ _ **DRACO**_?!?”

“You see, Miss Granger, Draco’s quite right. For reasons I’m unsure of at this time, all of the magical protections on pure-blood conceptions — the ‘Bequest’ — are playing out in your pregnancy. Your son knows Draco’s his father; the child’s magical abilities expand when you’re together. Because of that, he’ll require both of you to coax him from his comfortable home —”

“I’m glad ONE of us is comfortable…”

“Yes… As I was saying; it will take both of you to coax him out of his present home.”

“I could have a caesarian.”

“What’s that?” Draco snuck in during her lecture on ‘alternatives’ to magical medicine.

 

Too many options led away from the one he wanted for the three of them.

 

“A Muggle medical procedure where they make an incision here —” and Hermione drew her extended index finger across her lower abdomen like a scalpel.

 

Draco blew a brain fuse.

 

“They _**WHAT**_!?!? **NO!** ABsoLUTE-LY **NOT**! I will **NOT**  risk **EITHER** of you to that BAR ** _BAR_** IC procedure!”

“As it’s not your choice, you don’t have to worry about that, do you?”

“That child will apparate into your chest to get away from any butcher who tries that on you! You need me there, Hermione, and ‘ _there_ ’ is where I intend to be.”

 

> _“I’ll invite them and Harry to the Burrow for early tea before supper. It would be good if you were there too.”_
> 
> _“Would Lucius and I be welcome? Enough to assist Hermione and Draco?”_
> 
> _“If Lucius behaves himself. I’ll see to Arthur.”_
> 
> _“If Arthur’s insipid comments —”_
> 
> _“_ **_LUCIUS!_ ** _You will NOT ruin this for Draco or Hermione or I will ensure you sleep in the Guest House for a year. Do you understand? I will be part of my grandson’s life with or without you!”_
> 
> _“I can see you have Lucius well in hand. Until Sunday, then…”_


	5. A Prisoner of War Returns Home

Sunday at the Burrow began the long overdue process of family reconciliation, starting with revelations and confessions to clear the air. Hermione awkwardly exited the floo at the Burrow to Harry’s sarcastic comment —

 

“It’s about time you came back — _**PREGNANT**_!?”

 

Draco’s back leg, trailing his body behind her flop exit, hadn’t made it into the Burrow fully when her best friend’s _Everte Statum_ hex knocked the male source of Bali’s DNA into the burning fireplace coals.

 

“Harry, **NO**!”

 

Faster than Hermione could react, an _Extinguish_ spell kept Draco’s living flesh from charring as he crawled out of the fire and a _Flipendo_ bowled Harry backwards over the dining table and onto the chairs. 

 

Neither Hermione nor Draco cast those last two spells.

 

A disheveled Harry, climbing to a kneeling position, stared with his jaw gaped open at the translucent green curtain forming around the Slytherin and the Gryffindor while Harry’s “‘Mione" batted at flames on Draco’s expensive robes. Bali tumbled and kicked her until she cried out in pain — causing Draco to place his hands tenderly on her abdomen to calm his agitated son.

 

“Shhh, Balaur. Mama ta și cu mine suntem în siguranță. Ta 'Unchiul Harry' este fundul unui balaur; din păcate, el e cel mai bun prieten mamei tale. Suntem în siguranță, fiule.. [Hush, Dragon. Your mother and I are safe. Your ‘Uncle Harry’ is a dragon’s ass; unfortunately he’s your mother’s best friend. We’re safe, son.]”

“You speak Romani?!?” the expectant mother shouted in shock.

“I speak several languages. If you insist on raising my son in Romania, then I insist on speaking to him in his mother tongue. The ’ _Lingua Franca_ charm provides me with a basic fluency.”

“How did you —”

“— determine where you lived? Charlie told me.”

“That’s a lie, Malfoy! Charlie would never —”

 

The sardonic smile stopped Hermione's challenge, along with the “popping” sound of Kreacher finding an alternate way into the Burrow when the floo jammed up.

 

“You do remember the fight we had over your unwillingness to stop working with dangerous potions? Do you recall Charlie walking in on you shrieking like a harpy over my reasonable request and joining for your side? It’s common knowledge Charlie Weasley lives in Babadag, Romania taming dragons.”

“But that was months ago! You’ve never tried to visit.”

“I’ve harmed you enough by acting without your consent… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to straighten up and repair my robes before Mother and Father arrive. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on. And Potter —”

 

Seething but curious, Harry confronted Draco’s glare with one of his own.

 

“Do NOT upset Hermione or our son. If you have a problem with our situation, you take it up with ME —  not _her_. Do you understand? Believe me when I saw, I’ll _know_.”

 

A curt nod and Harry regained his feet and his temper.

 

“C’mon, Hermione. Let’s have a chat in the greenhouse,” and, cupping her elbow in his palm, the “Boy Who Sought Answers” led his best friend through the grey damp into a place of eternal spring.

“By the way —" Draco shouted in the direction of the greenhouse, "my son’s capable of protecting his mother, as you might have noticed.”

 

…..

 

With the greenhouse taken, Arthur steered the Malfoys — parents and child — to the humble sitting room of his home and began a quiet interrogation aimed at revealing the facts. The elder Weasley’s gentle demeanor kept Draco from apparating himself to the bottom of Black Lake.

 

“Now as I understand it, you were with Voldemort when he commanded Fenrir Greyback to… assault Hermione.”

“Yes.”

“Did you volunteer to take his place?”

“In a manner of speaking. I must’ve been staring because he changed his mind — not that _that_ didn’t happen a thousand times a day — and told me either to ‘defile the filthy Mudblood’ or he’d give her and my mother to Greyback to ‘toy with’. Dolohov suggested raping a ‘Mudblood whore’ would make me more of a man than my father was.”

 

Flat-timbered, with a matter-of-fact affect, Draco recited the tortures inflicted on Hermione by a lunatic half-blood conceived from an _Imperious’_ d Muggle father _._ Whatever defiance Lucius felt towards Arthur’s interrogation melted away as Draco’s ordeal, retold conversationally by the emotionally numb man-child, clarified what happened.

 

“What did you do to her?”

“I made a show of undressing her and touching her so the others would see. I nipped her ear so I could whisper to her. We had a code — one blink for ‘yes’ and two for ‘no’. Then I… Then I… I performed for the audience, acting as if I was disgusted by having to take her… She’d never been intimate with anyone so I tried to prepare her… I’m sure it hurt like hell; all those fuckers leered at her lying there, crying in pain. She begged me not to… but that wasn’t an option. They’d have given her to Greyback…”

 

“Only once?”

 

Color and confidence drained away with what small self-respect Draco’d recovered since his attempt to erase his ironic existence by suicide.

 

“No — nearly everyday for three weeks. The first days they kept her in the Manor’s dungeons. I sent my personal house elf, Nod, to look after her and make sure she ate. We had to repeat the ‘entertainment’ at least once a day in the Manor dining room. I convinced them she’d be easier to break if I had access to her all day. Dolohov didn’t suspect my motives and agreed; they moved her into my suites. She could bathe and read there and I could make sure she wasn’t harmed by anyone but me…”

 

His mother’s attempt to spare him with a gracious way out — “Draco, do you want to take a break?” — didn’t register. The reckoning recommenced without pause, one piece of Draco’s tattered soul ripped off with each revealed truth.

 

“I wouldn’t have touched her again but Dolohov ‘volunteered’ to check my obedience to Voldemort. Once a day I had to retrieve him from one of his drinking holes and let him check her for my seed. Had to keep the drunk fucker off her every time. She stayed with me in my suite until the Order rescued her.”

 

“Think carefully on this before answering, son,” Arthur Weasley posed as he cleaned his spectacle lenses, “why would you do this for someone you hated so very much? We can all understand doing whatever was necessary to protect your mother; by your account you sheltered Hermione from the worst of it as well. Why?”

 

“Because…” he panted, visibly upset by the question.

 

The reason viewed by Narcissa and Molly Weasley during their _Legilimancy_ sessions clawed it’s way to his mouth. Draco weighed the risks to his relationship with his once revered father to that of losing a relationship with his unborn son.

 

“I've never truly _hated_ her... because of her blood status. I envied her; her talent, her friends — earned not purchased, her freedom to be what she wanted to be. Merlin! They were all in Diagon Alley — Hermione and her family — clueless about our world, smiling and taking it all in like it was nothing strange. I was jealous — her swotty genius made my life  hell at home every term... but I never hated her.”

 

The core truth wouldn’t exit without assistance.

 

“Draco?” Molly interjected, “I’ve seen your memories. You’re about to become a father to a half-blood by a woman you’ve raped repeatedly —”

“Not the last time…”

“What do you mean ‘the last time’?”

“After the Battle I apparated back to the Manor immediately. Some of the less committed Death Eaters began to assemble there to leave England after Potthead turned the Dark Lord into cat litter. Hermione was there and we could hear them from my suite. I gathered that the Order would eventually show up looking for her, so I helped her prepare — packing a bag of transfigured clothes to take, making sure she ate… She tended to my injuries, just cuts and scrapes with a few burns from the fyend-fyre. She’d decided to hide what I did to her… She forgave me, she said… Being Hermione, she lectured me on how vile Voldemort was and how no child should have to protect their mother the way I did. She-She-She… thanked me for being gentle with her… insisted I’d never hurt her after the first few times — which was a lie… I kissed her — I know I shouldn’t have — and begged her to be with me one last time because she _wanted_ to, since I’d be in Azkaban once she testified under _Veritaserum_ … She let me love her in the bed we’d shared for weeks… Fell asleep in my arms until the Order came to rescue her.”

 

This final secret hushed the room until Lucius Malfoy slid from his chair to kneel in quiet sobs and hitches. Arthur hugged a tearful Molly, acknowledging the previously unspoken motivations of the complicated young man removing the scabs from his heart for their benefit.

 

“That’s enough for today. We’ll speak again after we welcome your son into the family. Ladies, you were correct; I’m glad we’ve had a chance to clear the air. I hope you’ll all stay for dinner. Molly’s Shepherd’s Pie never ceases to get compliments.”

“Thank you, Arthur…” a shaken man breathed out from his position of supplication on the floor.

 

…

 

“You’re alright?” Harry asked after her.

“No, I’m definitely _not_. I haven’t been alright since my son learned to use his feet to kick my bladder.”

“Hermione, what happened?”

“Voldemort put a bounty on me after we stole Helga Hufflepuff’s cup from Gringotts. He told me he’d finally determined that the ‘ _power the Dark Lord knows not_ ’ in your prophesy was _me_. The snatchers ambushed me while you and Ron were determining where we were in the forest. I had just enough time to ward off the area to keep you both clear of it. They brought me to the Manor and gave Draco a choice — rape me himself or see his mother and me raped and turned by Fenrir Greyback…”

“Ferret probably enjoyed every minute of it!”

“No, Harry, he _didn’t_. He did his best to make it tolerable for me. Gods! I never wanted to deal with this, but the baby reminds me every day of that dining room and those horrible, horrible Death Eaters standing around cheering Draco and threatening to ‘try me out’ when he was done…”

 

Harry delayed comforting his still traumatized friend only until he improvised a lounge, seeking to get her comfortable quickly and off her swollen feet.

 

“Sit down, love.”

“You can’t imagine what it was like, Harry…”

 

A stack of clean, pressed and folded handkerchiefs floated in from Fred and George’s old room. Molly continued to run the house as if all her children had returned from the war. No magic returned George’s doppelganger to the Burrow; George absented himself from a place missing half of everything.

 

“It’s over, Hermione.”

“They WATCHED us! Draco had to-to-to empty himself inside me _over_ and _over_ again until Voldemort was satisfied with our ‘performance’ — me fouled with Draco’s issue and begging him to stop! It went on like that for days! They only let me out of my cell for the ‘show’ that half-blood bastard wanted until Draco convinced them to move me into his suite.”

“Hermione, I can’t let Draco get away with this! He **_hurt_** you!! I promise my office will find a way to —”

“No you won’t, Harry James Potter, or I’ll leave forever! Draco saved me _and his mother_. Greyback would have bred us both. Did you know that female werewolves come into heat like dogs and does? They turn — full moon or not — and seek out their mate. And they mate for LIFE.”

“You don’t have to protect that Slytherin bastard!”

“Yes I **do**. The first time… Ron and I never actually, you know… Somehow Draco knew and he was truly gentle with me while playing it up for all those perverts watching us. He NEVER touched me unless ordered to.”

“Sounds like a fucking saint.”

“STOP IT! What would YOU have done to save your mother that night?!?”

 

What, indeed, would Britain’s magical “saviour” have done to have his mother alive and available to love?

 

“Why’re you defending him?!?

“Why don’t you believe me?!?”

“He’s Draco Malfoy! Have you forgotten you’re a ‘Mudblood’?!?”

“Thanks for reminding me…” 

“He hates you! Always has!”

“Whatever Draco _was_ he hasn’t _been_ since Voldemort sent him on that suicide mission to kill Dumbledore.”

“So he was a human being and not a snake for five minutes! You don’t have to be with him now!”

“I’m not ‘with him’. But he’ll be part of my life forever — we have a child together that, thanks to some strange pure-blood magic, _knows_ who his father is. That was Bali’s magic that knocked you over that table after you attacked Draco, not mine. Bali loves his father and I think Draco loves Bali.”

“Bali?”

“Mm-hmm. Mrs. Weasley nicknamed him.”

“You’ve seen Molly!?”

“Yes — don’t be angry!” she pleaded as he leaned back in his chair, “Molly delayed me the morning I left. Either she saw the signs of my pregnancy or Ginny told her.”

“Ginny???”

“Apparently your girlfriend slipped me sleeping draughts every afternoon so she could search my trunk. She found my plane ticket to Romania and the lab report from my Muggle doctor.”

“I’ll speak with her about it.”

“No you won’t,” Hermione laughed for the first time in his presence, “you’ll shout at her for not telling you!”

“Yeah; right as always. So what’s between you and Malfoy?”

“I’m not sure. He’s had a raw time of it since his trial. We’re talking… working our way through this unplanned connection we have. No matter what I expected of my life before I was kidnapped, he’s Bali’s father.”

“It’s just the baby, right? I’m not going to catch you two snogging, am I?”

 

Harry spotted the signs of discomfort almost immediately. So did her baby who extended that “force field” around his mother again.

 

“I’m not sure…”

“Hermione — it’s _Malfoy_!”

“A few hours before the Order breached the Manor’s wards, Draco and I were ‘together’…”

“ ** _He raped you after he left the Battle_**?!?”

“No… He asked and I consented. I wanted… I needed to know I could be with a man by choice… No man wants a woman who can’t be intimate.” 

 

Harry avoided any imagining of her experiences. Whatever drove her voluntarily into Malfoy’s bed qualified as nightmarish.

 

“Don’t blame Draco — it’s-it’s my own fault. I shouldn’t’ve been caught. I-I-I should’ve fought harder to escape the snatchers. I should’ve attacked Vold—”

“I’d rather he’d given Malfoy’s mother to Fenrir.”

“If he had, you’d be dead and I’d still be pregnant. Her lie saved your life. Can’t change the past,” she sighed, “We’ll be better in time, Draco and I; we have to, for Bali’s sake.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I should’ve told you…”

“Do I get to be godfather?”

“Can you manage not to curse Draco when you visit?”

“Any curse or just the Unforgivable ones?”

“Harry!”

 

Each peal of laughter saw the baby’s protective aura further retracted.

 

“Sounds like Ron and Ginny are back from practice. Let me help —”

 

Hermione’s anxiety brought the magical shield back.

 

“I thought about Ron every day… We were finding each other after Lavender and that stupid locket then THIS happens… What do I tell Ron? He’ll always be one of my best friends but this —”

 

A still slender finger pointed at her belly.

 

“I’ll tell him for you. You know Ron — he’ll go mental for a bit then he’ll get over it.”

“I betrayed him…”

“You were RAPED — not your fault. Let’s get you something to eat.”

 

…

 

“Bill, Fleur? I’ve put you at the smaller table with Draco and Hermione. The rest of you sit down, supper’s ready. HARRY? **RON**?” Molly yelled up the rickety stairs, each name a little louder than the prior.

 

The answer bounded down the steps with the other secret keeper.

 

“Ron’s being a git. Harry said to start without them,” Ginny explained with a sympathetic glance at Hermione.

 

Everyone ignored the sniffling sound Hermione made at that update. Sensing the group could use a topic not related to Hermione’s pregnancy, Charlie coughed nervously before announcing his news.

 

“Mum, Dad… Wanted you to know, Vlad and I are dating.”

 

Something not quite at the level of pandemonium broke out amongst the red-haired bunch, eventually settling into shocked acceptance. The news perplexed the blondes at the table — Arthur’s and Percy’s expressions communicated slight disapproval yet they congratulated the “couple” with the others. The parallels to their own situation — the necessity of accepting Draco’s relationship with a former undesirable — obscured itself in this chaotic new extended family. 

 

The diversion cooled the conversation and the meal continued amicably until Harry called down for Hermione to join them upstairs. Draco shook his head “No” to her attempts to rise, placing a restraining hand on her thigh.

 

“Mrs. Weasley, is this the only floo in the house?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so.” Molly fretted.

“Don’t move; I’l be right back.”

 

Victoire filled the uncomfortable silence with baby talk and innocent squeals when tickled by her besotted father. Hermione’s nerves had almost calmed when Draco returned with apologies to the Weasleys and assisted her to stand. Without announcing their destination aloud he flicked floo powder into the flames and escorted her in. Kreacher appeared out of nowhere to come behind.

 

Before speculation broke out in full, two more of Molly’s diners stomped down the steps — one consumed in incendiary rage and the other grimly resigned — and stepped into the flames on the heels of the others.


	6. Persecution of the Innocent

Hours later, the aborted dinner at the Weasleys transitioned to an aborted reconciliation between Hermione and Ron at Malfoy Manor. 

 

Bali swirled, agitated by his mother’s anticipatory anxiety over the coming confrontation. Harry refereed heated discussions between the principals until Draco revealed his role in the apparent non-consensual conception of his son and stated his fervent intent to be a father to the product of the coupling. Hermione's best friends glared as Draco saw to her comfort (as if they _were_ a couple) — Ron’s jealousy still undecided whether it most hated Draco’s wealth, looks, privilege or the fact that the Junior Death Eater had ruined something that had once been pledged only to him.

An emotionally and physically drunken Ron Weasley lashed out impulsively with a hex and triggered the blood protections in the Manor in recognition of her son's ancestry — but not before Draco and Bali cast powerful protective charms around her while she implored Ron to understand that wars have casualties other than death.

Fred’s fate seemed almost unfairly compassionate by comparison...

 

“Get off your feet, Granger,” Draco instructed as he situated Hermione on the lounge, softening the cushions and retrieving a drink from the sideboard bar for her.

“Leave her be, Malfoy — you’ve done enough.”

“Ron, please try to understand. Without Draco’s help, Fenrir would’ve —”

“Better a werewolf than Malfoy’s slut!”

“Ron —” Harry interjected.

“No — let him talk, Potter. Let Hermione hear how her ‘best friend’ thinks she’s a slag for not wanting to become a werewolf’s mate. I thought all you Gryffindor’s were bleeding heart buggers but it appears I was wrong. Should’ve been a Slytherin after all, eh Weaslebee?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy! You should've killed that half-breed snake-faced mental case!”

 

Another hex flew across the room at them both, deflected harmlessly by the Manor’s recognition of the Malfoy blood carried in Hermione’s body.

 

“And you —” Ron rounded on Hermione, “you’re the best of us! How is it you got caught in the first place!?”

“Because you LEFT! Harry and I were lucky to eat more than a few times a week or sleep more than every TWO DAYS. I was EXHAUSTED and SLOW setting the wards!”

“Hermione…” Harry begged, “it wasn't your doing —”

“That’s what Ron thinks! Don’t you!? I must have WANTED to be captured and RAPED, right?”

“Hermione, this isn’t your fault — it’s mine,” Draco pleaded, heartsore at the merciless sacrifice of her self-esteem and familiar wit the damaged it inflicted upon her and his son.

“She’s right, Ferret! Never seen Hermione bested in a duel. How many were there? Six? Eight? You fought off more shiteheads than _that_ at Gringotts but _**couldn’t manage a few Snatchers**_!?”

“Ron, shut UP!" Harry shouted, "This is **Hermione** you’re talking about!” 

“Leave it, Harry. He isn’t saying anything I hadn’t thought of myself. Ah-Ah-Ah!” she cringed, clutching her belly.

“Hermione!?”

“What’s happening, Malfoy? Is she okay?”

“Your bastard 'friend' has upset our son — he’s hurting her. Hermione? Please — you’ve done nothing wrong except pick this wanker as a friend. Don’t blame yourself…”

A slurred mutter came from the bar area, “Serves her right…”

“Malfoy’s right, luv. Isn’t your fault," the Boy Who Cared encouraged. "Ron’s just brassed off, aren’t you Ron?”

“Fucking right I am! My _girlfriend_ — the ‘brightest witch of her age’ — managed to get caught and **fucked** by Draco Malfoy and his Death Eater cronies! We were supposed to get  married, have kids together! Now _look_ at her! _**She’s carrying his bastard around**_!!”

“If I could go back, I would. I’d stop you from leaving. I’d figure out Dumbledore’s clues faster. I’d kill Voldemort myself when I walked into the Manor. But I didn’t because I couldn’t and I’m **SORRY** , Ron! This is NOT what I’d planned for our lives.”

“Just…,” Ron whinged, pacing aimlessly near the fireplace with his free hand running through his sweat-sticky hair, “get rid of it. No one knows except my family. Get rid of it and come home. It’ll be alright — we’ll pretend it never happened.”

“No matter how it ‘ _happened_ ’, this child is half mine.”

“ **And half that rich rat bastard’s**! He doesn’t want it or **_you_**! You’re a ‘ **Mudblood** ' **whore** to this **pure-blood prat**!”

“There’s where you’re wrong, Weasel. No one will hurt my son or his mother while I’m alive.”

 

Ron sent a sharp retort with a lopsided sneer — “No problem fixing that, Ferret.”

 

The situation couldn’t get more surreal: Voldemort’s reluctant recruit unintentionally succeeded where his “Master” failed; pure-bloods hanging in living portraits around the stately salon witnessed the “Golden Trio” rip itself to shreds.

 

“We should go, Ron, before you say something _really_ stupid.”

“Hermione — choose. **Right here; right now**! That **bastard** you’re breeding or **ME**. _Which is it_?”

“This is my _CHILD_ , Ronald!”

“We can have another — right away if you want! We’ll get started as soon as you flush that THING you’re carrying down the crapper!”

 

The irate ginger threw back more of Draco’s top shelf fyrewhiskey, missing most of his mouth.

 

“What a HORRID request to make of me!”

“That’s **it**! We’re leaving. You’re plastered, Ron,” — and Harry hustled in the direction of his best mate and the nearest floo — “Take care of her, Malfoy.”

“I mean to, Potter; BOTH of them.”

“ **Shut up, you dark fuck**! 'Mione? Just cast the spell and we can go _home_ …”

“Ron," she whispered, "you don’t mean that…”

“Fine. You made your choice — your _bastard_ over your boyfriend.”

“C’mon, let’s go back to the Burrow.”

“What makes you think I’d _let_ her kill my son, Queasley?” Draco jabbed at Ron’s retreating back, “He’s heir to the Malfoy **fortune** — and a better wizard now than your bumbling arse will _ever_ be.”

“Malfoy, stay out of this,” Harry growled in a low voice, “— don’t make it worse,”.

“ _ **Fuck you, Ferret**_!” and a final curse shot away from Ron’s wand before Harry could stop it.

 

The intended target of Ron’s anger wasn’t clear to Hermione or Harry. Draco and Bali, however, had no doubt who a pissed and pathetic Ron Weasley had aimed at. After succumbing to the locket’s influence concerning Harry and Hermione, Ron’s angry tears confirmed that he’d again lost his sure bet — this time to his second worst enemy: his second cousin once removed.

 

Every war created its own twisted casualties…

* * *

 

In an effort to push the abrupt dissolution of her friendship with Ron behind her, Hermione asked — and Draco reluctantly acquiesced — to give her space to work through this most tender war loss. He’d had no contact with her in almost two weeks; The moody father-to-be now spent his days and nights heading the family business, Malfoy Enterprises, trying to work himself to exhaustion (and succeeding admirably).

 

Two unanswered floo calls led to one additional floo call and a drastic change in the lives of those living in the Romanian farmhouse.

 

Two innocent contacts — one from Molly (to confirm the final colors of the nursery) and one from Narcissa (asking permission to have the Malfoy heirloom rocker delivered) — went unanswered. Each grandmother let concern percolate, calming their instinct to panic for an hour before contacting each other. 

Upon arriving in Romania, together they unleashed behavior that allowed Hell to break loose.

Mrs. Weasley and Lady Malfoy found Hermione collapsed on the floor, writhing in pain while clutching her belly and sobbing uncontrollably, begging her son to stop hurting her. Tears did not slow the elder women’s coordinated reactions to the crisis unfolding before them. Molly assisted the distressed expectant mother up from the floor and stepped through the main floor floo headed for Hermione's bedroom, supporting her adopted daughter and cooing to soothe her —

 

“Let’s get you back to bed, dear, then we’ll get Ivona here right away.”

 

— while Narcissa floo’d the Malfoy family Healer and Draco in rapid succession. To avoid being shredded by the Romanian home’s security wards, Armstrong bounced through the Manor before entering the farmhouse’s main living area and taking the stairs two at a time to Hermione’s bedroom. The healer’s footsteps mingled with new noises from Ivona — the midwife — who apparated directly to her patient after the alert from Molly’s patronus. Broadcasting tranquility she manufactured for her grandson’s benefit, Narcissa ascended the steps herself, using the intervening time to lock the placid expression on her face.

 

In the bedroom suite, Hell sent violent kicks and punches into the vital organs of the very pregnant witch whose baby grew more and more frightened at his father’s extended absence…

 


	7. Pregnant Pause

Being small-built, Hermione reached the exhausting part of carrying her firstborn sooner than most expectant mothers — ready to shed the aches, the weight and the fear of giving birth to a twenty-pound Malfoy. The midwife’s words did not improve the situation.

 

“Virator, you must rest. Your impatient son should stay put for many more weeks.”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying Vlad and Charlie will be waiting on you until Balaur makes his way into the world.”

“How big?”

 

She’d asked the same question of her healer for the last 30 checkups. Her uninvited “parenting partner” asked it for the last 10.

 

“Vira - do not worry so much!" the midwife soothed as she removed the last of the diagnostic spells. "You are made for this. There will be pain but it will pass and you will have your son. You will get through this as all mothers do. If you worry and fret your baby will fight your body. Draco — talk to her about this. She must be calm.”

“It’s Granger; calm isn’t part of her makeup.”

“Says my rapist…” the irritated Gryffindor muttered under her breath.

“Says your _partner_ and the father of that baby you’re carrying,” the increasingly unflappable Slytherin snarked to the remark meant to go unheard.

“I will check on you this weekend. Did Vlad put garlic in the musaca?” — the obstetric whirlwind paused long enough for Hermione to nod. “Hardheaded! I tell him ‘It will give Vira an ache in her chest!’ _Does he listen_? No! Always he does what he chooses! Rest — I will go and rescue your dinner from my heavy-handed nephew,” and with a wave, Ivona (Vlad’s paternal aunt) repacked her medical bag and _Disapparated_ to the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

After stepping gracefully from the floo days later in the Romanian farmhouse, Draco’s temper ignited. 

 

Standing alone in the cozy seating area at the foot of Hermione’s bed shouldn’t have happened; bed rest usually meant the patient would be found in _bed_. His inhalation in preparation to bellow for her brought sufficient silence to locate the missing mother.

 

Hermione sat “nesting” — magically refolding and neatly re-storing baby clothes and supplies in the heirloom dresser Molly had Charlie and Vlad refinish to match the nursery — while singing to soothe her claustrophobic toddler-sized baby.

Her mood was as rounded and soft as her oversized belly. Before the mandatory bed rest, he’d often found her here tenderly stroking her belly to reposition a stray foot or hand and reciting nonsense rhymes or (re)preparing a nursery she’d finished with months ago. Parental "talks" (as she called them) in this room were cordial, civil and meaningful with none of their ritualistic bickering or snappishness. During Draco’s still crippling (but less frequent) emotional storms, he’d seek out this room like a tracking hound; seconds, minutes or hours later she’d find him.

Leaning against the nursery’s door jamb, sounds of his family lifted the corners of Draco's mouth. Slytherins used cunning like most wizards used oxygen; cunning would keep him near them. The pieces of the damaged aristocrat, reassembling themselves after fate fucked him royally, required proximity to this woman and their child to continue their repair — he dare not think true healing possible despite his healer's uncaged optimism. The same Slytherin wits that protected her from Greyback would relentlessly find a way to be part of what lay before his eyes.

 

“Another hidden talent, Granger?”

“My —”

“ _OUR_ —”

 

The ritual correction brought a soft smile to Hermione’s face. Regardless of her future decisions regarding Draco’s role in _her_ life, she appreciated his efforts to be different with and less distant from his son.

 

“‘Our’, then…” she relented tenderly, cocooned in an obliging maternal mood, “ _OUR_ son’s getting squeezed and he’s taking it out on me. He settles when I sing.”

 

A strange looking contraption with two small wheels spinning behind a translucent window played accompaniment that included another songstress mimicking the Gryffindor’s stylings.

 

“Who’s in the band?”

“That?" she followed his gaze, turning her head, "It’s a ‘Walkman’ - it plays music recorded on cassette tape.”

 

The weeks and months together exposed a curiosity in Draco that paralleled her own. His potions skills rivaled hers; the muscle rubs and pregnancy-safe pain relievers she’d needed had been “invented” by Draco. 

His rapid-fire inquiries had her laughing.

 

“Tape? What do you mean record — re ** _cord_** or **_rec_** -ord? What magic puts the music in the —”

“Draco — enough! It’s a muggle music device. Read the directions; they’re in my bed-stand drawer. If you’re going to help with the baby you need to figure out how to use muggle devices — like the ‘Nappy Nipper’,”

 

Her finger pointed to a canister sporting a transparent top and some kind of waxy paper inside.

 

“ _Why_ ," he disdained, his nose wrinkling up in disgust, "would I learn about _anything_ to do with nappies?”

 

Her madonna smile abandoned her face.

 

“Because I will not have a house elf care for Bali! He’s OURS and WE will care for him — if you’re sticking around for the _real_ work!”

 

Draco never really mastered the facility to apologize when angered. 

 

“I **never _said_** I wouldn’t care for  him,” he shouted, “— or **you!** ” he added to make sure she understood he considered them a package.

“I can look after myself. Don’t start this if you’re not willing to see it through, Draco. It won’t do to have you tire of the tedium once Balaur’s attached to you.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Hermione, I will look after you both until I’m sure you no longer need my help.”

 

— which, in the quieter areas of Draco’s healing mind, began to resemble forever.

 

“Time for you to have a lie down. I’ll bring up our dinner,” and he lifted her from the chair to carry back to her bed.

 

* * *

 

“Mother?”

“Draco! You’re early — aren’t you working in France this week?”

 

Acknowledging the relationship between a solvent Malfoy Enterprises and money in the Ministry’s coffers, Magical Law Enforcement lifted their restrictions; Draco took over as head of the family business. Draco’s unorthodox therapy healer at St. Mungo’s played a significant role in getting the constraints lessened.

 

“Are you well, Granger?”

 

The coded phrase buffered the emotions neither youngster could handle right now.

 

“I’m _bored_. Your mother offered to keep me company today. I’m not used to idleness.”

“I enjoyed my visit. Have you decided on a name?”

 

Hermione stared at Draco, waiting to see if their argument over naming the Malfoy heir was indeed at an end. With a capitulating huff, a smirk and a nod, he acquiesced to her choice.

 

“Balaur Baiat,” 

“‘ _Dragon’s Child_ ’… Thank you, Miss Granger, for continuing our traditions.”

“Actually, Molly named him when she spelled us onto her clock. He’s a Malfoy — probably picked the name himself.”

“And I thought ‘pushy know-it-all’ was a Granger trait,” a snide Draco zinged in to balance the scales for surrendering to her wishes on their son's name.

 

Narcissa froze until the smile broke across Hermione’s full face; this was playfulness not sniping.

 

“I’ll leave you two. Thursday?”

“I’ll be here.”

“I don’t know, Granger. That bludger you’re carrying looks like it’s moved lower.”

“Merlin! Let’s hope. I’m ready to have this baby — past ready.”

 

Lady Malfoy let loose an unrestrained laugh, recalling her own confinement as she stepped through the floo.

 

“You okay?”

 

Bear-hugging the panic he felt brought sweat out. Finding his mother attending his something-or-other forced concerns he'd rather avoid to the forefront of his mind, an instinct left over from the war.

 

“We’re fine, just hungry. I waited for you; Charlie and Vlad ate earlier.”

“I’ll be right back,” and he apparated out and back in the blink of an eye with a tray of light foods. Lack of space meant her stomach could hold only small portions eaten many times a day.

“Draco, you don’t have to answer this… Why is your family so interested in Bali?”

“I thought we’d resolved this in Paris.”

“Not to my satisfaction…”

“Hermione…” he growled in warning, a sign his control over his temper was slipping.

“I’m having the first half-blood Malfoy bastard —”

“ _And_???”

“— and that’s not ‘ _Malfoy_ ’.”

“ _You’re afraid_!” he almost shouted as the epiphany landed, rocketing him backwards in the comfortable chair he’d brought weeks ago from the Manor.

“No I’m —”

“Yes you are! I’ve seen it before. The question is — _what are you afraid of_?”

 

Waiting her out, as he’d done before and after every rape, he knew he’d guessed right when the tears came. 

 

“I could give you a list of reasons... " he eventually continued, “why we _do_ care... My mother’s the last Black — Aunt Andromeda doesn’t count as she was disinherited.”

“EXACTLY! Why would you or your parents want to associate with me or my son — and why would **you** want to acknowledge Bali!?”

“You’re afraid I’ll abandon you…”

 

Shock shaped both faces as Draco’s surmise worked it’s way through two first-rate minds.

 

“ **I KNOW YOU WILL**!” the war casualty (who’d yet to have time to deal with her own post-war pain — thanks to their impending arrival) shouted. “Eventually, wizarding Britain will move on and your family will regain it’s vaunted ‘place’ in the magical world. You’ll marry and we’ll be an uncomfortable footnote in your post-war recovery. I don’t want to put Bali through that…”

“You’re not alone, Hermione,” he said evenly, “And I would never deny you or Bali, even if I do marry — which is unlikely. Can’t see any girl who can read the Prophet saying ‘YES!’ to a former Death Eater.”

“I can’t _do_ this… There’s not enough of me left to pick up the pieces — again!" Hermione panted as the panic attack squeezed her chest, "He loves you so much that he punishes **ME** when you’re absent too long. **It’s not _FAIR_ , Draco!**”

“Are your parents still in Australia?”

 

Only one shocked expression showed up this time.

 

“Why would you ask...???  _H-H-How did you know_?…”

“You have nightmares, too…”

 

Pressing the heel of her hands to her eyes darkened them so thoroughly that the video of her parents leaving without her ran in high definition; she'd only meant to block out the reality Draco's presence forced upon her. Suddenly, perspiration drenched her and the soft maternity gown she wore. Constriction of her chest brought an arhythmic wheeze that shook through her while he watched. Draco moved closer, hoping to calm her before the attack brought on her labor prematurely.

 

In a near-whisper, he gave her what he could — “I’ll help you find them, Hermione.”

 

The backs of his fingers sought to soothe her by stroking her arm but his aim missed and irritated the tattoo she'd gained under torture from his psychotic aunt.

 

“ **They’re not LOST, Ferret, and you’ve _HELPED_ me enough, _THANK YOU_!**”

 

The rebuke, laden with reminders and recriminations for her present inability to restore her former life, snatched stitches open in his secret place — with the result that he turned without retaliating and rocketed through the floo to places unknown.

 

“DRACO!…” echoed in her suite so loudly it brought Charlie and Vlad on the run.

“He’s gone…” she whimpered — and doubled over in pain as her son beat out his own heartbreak inside her body.


	8. Anger Management

“Welcome, Draco!”

 

Unused to anything approaching “welcome” or “kindness” in public in the recent past, Draco nearly missed the stool he’d selected in an inconspicuous spot in the Leaky Cauldron’s private drinking room. It took 500 galleons and a recognizable face to get past the wards.

 

“I take it St. Mungo's doesn’t know you’re here. Patients should avoid pubs and drugs. Alcohol is a drug, in case you missed that part of your treatment lecture; Healer Nightshade's usually very thorough with that unit.”

 

Luna Lovegood — no, _Longbottom_ now — stood tending bar in her husband’s establishment. Having managed to graduate from Hogwarts early (in spite of the Carrows and Severus Snape), the blonde oddity studied the healer’s craft by day and helped out the new family business by night.

 

“How’s Hermione?” she asked, making polite conversation while spit shining recently washed tumblers.

 

The feeling — of dropping from a great height at great velocity with no hope of rescue — consumed him, as did the irony that Hermione must have experienced this same sensation each time he'd defiled her. He'd told no one — not even his healer or her staff — of his situation with the witch or of her impending motherhood or of his guilt for her confinement.

 

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Can we move past this interrogation? Get me a bottle of Old Gaffer’s and make sure my glass never empties.”

“Whatever happened between you can be settled if you return to her and apologize. Hermione’s not the type to hold a grudge.”

 

Shock (which had been following him around like those accursed Ministry house elves) placed itself firmly on the counter where Draco swore he could see it smirking.

 

“My mother always said pregnant witches can be moody,” the strange but insightful witch continued compassionately, “Hermione’s probably moved past it already. You should go home to her.”

 

After due consideration of his situation (and of the half-empty bottle of Old Gaffer’s), a slightly altered Draco Malfoy resolved to return to Romania to keep his word to the witch who’d taught him about the transformative power of forgiveness and who found it increasingly difficult to shoulder the burden of her own hellish war experiences. 

 

His plan hit a snag between the establishment’s exit and the apparition point a quarter-block away…

 

* * *

 

The tracer, placed on Draco by the Ministry's Aurors' department, screamed at Kreacher (the house elf presently responsible for Draco’s surveillance).

 

Soft-hearted when it came to the Black family members, the long-time servant (and property) of the Black family had been lenient with his charge — allowing him privacy at the Manor and in the farmhouse in Romania where the boy spent time with the Mudblood he'd bedded and befouled. Draco’s emotional decision to vacate Hermione’s rooms, without notifying the elf, set off a caterwauling charm his chaperone almost didn’t recognize (not  _once_ had it gone off during his assignment). 

The Deputy Probation Elf’s recovery from mawkishness got further delayed when the tracer landed him not at the Leaky Cauldron pub but in the bedroom of a very pregnant — and, clearly, very _ill_ — witch whose writhing and sobbing unnerved him. Surrounded by the Malfoys (and the cretins he recognized as the blood-traitor Weasleys), Kreacher quickly determined that Draco wasn’t among the concerned people ringing the bed of the sobbing witch and popped out again to locate his missing master/prisoner…

 

* * *

 

The difference between shit-faced and rat-arsed — when consuming Old Gaffer’s on an empty stomach with an empty heart — is this: rat-arsed drunks can’t protect themselves when ambushed by a group of shit-faced Chudley Cannon rowdies led by Ron Weasley (rowdies who were, themselves, a few shots short of rat-arsed drunk).

 

“There’ee is boys! Draco Fucking Malfoy. RUINED my ex-girlfriend — you blokes know her, right? The WAR HERO Hermione Granger. Yeah… This **DEATH EATER _raped_** her and now she’s carryin’ his bastard instead of being my wife!”

 

Lifetime habits go down hard on all sides of poor decisions. Draco chose — at that moment and to his detriment — to affect his arrogant, aristocrat demeanor.

 

“Better she carry my heir then your brain-damaged spawn. At least I care about her welfare and not my last interview in the Prophet. Did you tell your mates that you hexed her? Great headline, don’t you think? ’Golden Trio' Hanger-on Ronald  _Bum-Chum_  Weasley — the Chudley Cannons'  _S_ _ecret_  Uphill Gardener — Hurls a Curse at Pregnant Hermione Granger, War Hero’!” 

 

In Ron, Draco had  _finally_  found an acceptable outlet for the hurt inflicted by Hermione and on Hermione. For possibly the first time since he’d realized she mattered, Draco could pound the shite out of somebody to release his rage without consequences —

— or so he thought.

 

“But here’s the best part — my son protected his mother! Not even _**born**_ yet and he’s a better wizard than YOU, you ignorant ginger **fuck**! _Look at you_ — had to bring half your squad to deal with one REAL wizard —”

 

 _Calvario_ hit Draco, who began to shed.

 

Ron chortled — “Look! It’s a hairless ferret!” — pointing with his wand at a spell-shaven Draco Malfoy.

 

The _Ear-Shriveling_ Curse came back the sotted ginger's way, causing Ron to shriek in pain as his ears reached the size of walnut shells.

 

“You bloody wanker! _Everte Statum! Immobulus! Incendio!_ ”

 

Thrown backwards and immobilized, Draco now smelt of his own flesh burning under his robes, unable to wield his wand to extinguish himself.

 

“C’mon, Malfoy. Stop screaming like the coward you are and DO something! I’m right here!”

 

The volley of response spells came from a direction nowhere near the burning victim, who’d overcome his frozen state and frantically sought to put himself out.

 

“ _INCARCEROUS_!” bound Ron Weasley and the other Cannos together while Draco’s rescuer alternated magical fire extinguishing and burn healing.

“Sir," his living tracking device informed him, "you’re needed in Romania. Ms. Granger is struggling with the child. Healers are there.”

“ _ **IMMOBULUS**_!” stilled all activity as Harry Potter arrived to arrest Draco Malfoy for his probation violation, only to find him smoking and blistered (to Harry’s left) while Ron hurled illegal — and  _ineffective_ — curses in Malfoy’s direction (to Harry’s right).

“ ** _What the BLOODY HELL is going on here, Ron_**!?”

“We were minding our own when this dark fucker **ATTACKED** us!”

“THAT’S A **_LIE_**!”

“Who’re you going to believe, Harry — your best mate or Voldemort’s _bitch_!?”

“Why’s he the only one on fire, Ron?” 

“I dunno; guess I’m a better wizard.”

 

Harry’s brain dug in more deeply at Ron’s response.

 

“Kreacher, did you see what happened?”

“No, Master Potter. Kreacher arrived after.”

 

Raking two hands through his newly receding hairline, Harry made a decision.

 

“I’m arresting everybody until we sort this out.”

“Potter, _please_! I’ll come quietly later, but Kreacher says something’s wrong with Hermione. She might have gone into labor after —” and panicked, Draco stopped explaining abruptly.

“After _what_ , Malfoy?”

“We had an argument; I left rather than lose my temper with her…”

“Until I get to the bottom of this, you’ll have to come with me. I’ll see if Hermione wants you near her. She can be scary when she’s hacked off. Ask Ron over there.”

 

Seconds later, a healer attended to first-, second- and third-degree burns on Draco (in the holding cell the Aurors’ Department kept for sorting things out) while the collective hot-heads from the Chudley Cannons were standing, trussed, next to Harry’s messy desk — all except Ron, who remained free while pleading his case with Harry.

 

“He _**RAPED**_ her! And Hermione, the stubborn _**bint**_ , is **having** **_his_** baby! She was my girlfriend, Harry. What was I supposed to do — let him get away with it? He’s ruined her for me; I couldn’t stay with her after  he’d had her!”

 

He’d left them, Ron had, during the war — unable to tolerate the effects of the locket and the effects of the conflict. Ron had never faced challenges the likes of those Harry and Hermione survived so far. So he’d surrendered before the Battle of Hogwarts and Harry gave him a pass. 

Not everyone, Harry reasoned at the time, is born with a steel spine.

But it appeared, for the first time since he’d extended forgiveness to his (soon-to-be “former”) best mate, that Ron had learned **nothing** from that mistake: the world existed only through a lens where the ginger git held the position “King of Weasley World”, an unremarkable truth about an unremarkable young man.

 

“The question, Ron, is: _Why_ would she'd want to be with a selfish, heartless  PRAT like you? I’m sure Hermione’s beating herself up over what **SHE** did to  YOU by volunteering to let Malfoy **RAPE** her!”

 

Ropes re-bound Ron securely without a word or a wand wave from The-Boy-Who-Was-Bali’s-Godfather.

 

“ZABINI!”

“No need to shout, Potter,” the laid-back Slytherin answered as he made his way to his boss.

“Take a full memory covering the last twelve hours from each of the Quidditch idiots. Use force if you’d enjoy it. And get one from Malfoy when the healer’s done!”

 

The stag leapt from Harry’s wand (before he’d completed his instructions) headed for Romania to confirm whether his best friend wanted to see her sperm-donor/rapist/parenting-partner again. He needed no confirmation of Ron’s removal from her life.

A half-hour’s work by Zabini confirmed Draco’s role as victim. Another quarter-hour’s debrief of Kreacher — and the return of Harry’s stag bearing the screaming voice of  Hermione as she begged Harry to locate Draco and convince him to return to her — bubbled a plan to the top of the “Action Required” queue in the Deputy Head Auror’s very busy brain. 

Running to the cell, Harry unlocked and released his innocent victim, passing on an apology and a warning.

 

“Sorry about tonight, Malfoy; you better get going.”

“Thanks, Potter.”

 

The-Boy-Who-Loved hesitated a moment before letting Draco pass.

 

“You better learn to love them or I’ll find a reason to let Ron have your arse."

 

Neither moved for an endless second, each taking a new measure of the other; then Draco gave the Auror an imperceptible nod.

 

"Kreacher! Get him directly to Hermione! Emergency apparition protocol!”

 

Draco snatched Kreacher’s hand and growled out “Let’s go!”

 

   

 


	9. False Labor

Seconds after his release, Draco and Kreacher appeared in Hermione’s bedroom to a scene neither ever wanted to witness again. 

 

Her belly shook as rock-sized lumps moved across it. Trapped in their son’s panic attack, Hermione howled in pain and begged the baby to forgive her for forcing his father away — which only increased Bali’s kicks and magical protests. The assault left ugly bruises over a third of her torso and thin cuts where the unborn wizard's terror sliced and stung her. Around the bed, Molly and Narcissa fought the child’s magical shield to place cooling gels and healing salve on his mother's injuries — with no significant success. Helplessly Healer Armstrong flanked Midwife Ivona, wearing the same horrified expressions at the sight of spells gone berserk.

 

Sprinting to her bedside, Draco seethed in anger at the actions leading to this moment. Without Ronald-the-Bully’s revenge play he’d have been here for his partner hours ago. And Potter needed to get smarter faster the next time or, Draco was sure, Hermione would suffer some unnecessary hurt. Without his own violations of her, the tiny tantrum-thrower — magically mauling his mother at this moment — would not exist.

 

Of course, given the circumstances and Fenrir, the same fate would almost certainly have been true for Hermione. 

 

The world should have seen her as the hero she was to him, defending a world she'd often had only a toehold in. She should have been off with Weasley — revamping the Ministry’s antiquated pure-blood preference laws in between squatting every year to drop another ginger half-wit into whatever hovel Weaselbee could manage for them. Deserving of _so much_ more from those who benefitted daily from Voldemort’s demise (including himself and his parents), she’d have made the best of the situation and found contentedness with the underachieving Weasel. 

Instead, she’d taken stock and tried to make her way as a N.E.W.T.-less single mother: once more in a world she hadn’t prepared to be part of.

In all their time together, before _and_ after Bali’s conception, that’s what he’d figured out: Hermione excelled at making the best of situations — good and bad — and did so without the petulant sullenness or perpetual self-pity Draco used to express his “Woe is me!” dissatisfaction with his state of being.  _She'd_ never attempted self-erasure to escape her war wounds...

 

He'd yet to tell her that his attentions increased third year at Hogwarts when he’d noticed her pluck and resilience. During the long nights of unrelenting erections in his early adolescence (the nights before the girls decided to visit the boys and attend to their joint “needs” together) he’d emptied himself more than once to the ghostly sight of her riding him or the imagined whisper of “ _Draco…_ ” in his ear as she released beneath him and gave him permission to follow. 

When he’d begged her at the Manor to let him show her what their coming together _should’ve_ been, she’d consented for _his_ sake. And he’d loved her as no one else would, having learned her body and heart so well while trying his damnedest not to harm her more than was necessary to save her.

A more determined Draco decided then and there to tell her the truth about his son and heir. Bali was neither a shameful nor unwanted result from a poignant act of love between them. He was, however, a very frightened baby — a born _empathic Legilimens (_ an extremely _rare_ magical mutation, by Dumbledore’s later reckoning) — who desperately demanded the unconditional love of _both_ his parents for himself and for each other. What they “felt”, the child felt: without the shielding of experiences to protect his outsized heart.

It was well past time to for the junior Lord to grow up and care for his family...

 

“Leave! Now! I’ll handle this!”

 

Small signs of relief and satisfaction broke through Molly’s expression of concern. The mother of seven children suspected more about the magic her adopted grandson displayed than she’d let on to his family (thanks to deep conversations with dead people’s portraits in old castles). Only under unusual circumstances and special joining would a child with Bali’s prodigious gifts be conceived, according to Dumbledore.

 

“Let’s give them some privacy,” Grammie Molly suggested while bustling a livid Charlie, a concerned Vlad and an unsettled Lucius Malfoy towards the bedroom door. With a prolonged look in Molly's direction and a nod of agreement, Nana Narcissa followed  —  the helpless healers trailing her.

 

Each step closer by Draco slowed the assault on Hermione’s exhausted body in tiny amounts.

 

“We’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” Bali's ginger grandmother informed the young father as she corralled the lot away from his family. Kreacher (never comfortable in mawkish situations) popped into the nursery, snapping his fingers to close the door soundly behind him.

 

Silently, Draco stripped to his boxers and climbed into bed behind her as they’d slept that single time it had been her choice.

 

“Imi pare rau, Balaur; -ul pa-pa este rău…” he cooed, rubbing her belly to calm all of them, “Taci, băiete blând. Te doare mama ta. Ea te iubește, fiule. Vă rugăm să opriți rănești. Nu e folosit pentru a Malfoy comportamentul neadecvat [I’m sorry, Balaur; your pa-pa is sorry… Hush, gentle dragon. You’re hurting your mother. She loves you, son. Please stop hurting her. She’s not used to Malfoy misbehavior] —”

 

A tiny scoff interrupted the hitched sobs that quieted as the baby did.

 

“De ce crezi amândoi mă răni, Draco [Why do you both hurt me, Draco]?”

“Because you keep running away from us — pushing us away. We’re both pissed about it and we’re both tired of it,” he answered in English.

 

Larger circles of his hand lightly skimmed the low curve of her fuller breasts and the roundness just beneath the elastic  waistband of her maternity knickers.

 

“I’m not ‘running’ anywhere — I can’t! I have a baby to care for!”

“I’d have thought — sh-sh-sh, Balaur” he crooned as the child reacted to Hermione’s loveless statement of obligation.

“If that’s how you feel about him, give him to me.”

“I bloody well WON’T!”

“Why not? If all you feel is the burden because you’re carrying him, then give him to me when he's born. I’ll love him.”

“ _You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘love’!_ ” 

 

— and she struggled to escape his arm, which never broke its soothing rhythm despite her movements.

 

“I may be a fucked up mess, Hermione, but I know who I love. I love our son. I love my parents — whose bloody mistakes are why we’re even having this conversation. And I’ve come to care for you. Balaur knows this. You’re too much of a swot not to realize he wants us together. Damnedest thing Armstrong’s ever seen, but there it is.”

“Draco, we don’t have a — _**AHHH**_!”

 

The pain struck before she could once again deny their relationship.

 

“He’s hurting you because you’re hurting him, you know.”

 

That brought her protests to a halt.

 

“He senses you don’t love him. Not completely.”

“I do love… him. I’m _scared_ for him.”

“Scared that if he looks like me you won’t love him? Or scared he’ll always remind you of the rapes?”

 

Truth turned her on her back to stare at him like a fox trapped during a hunt.

 

“Let me correct your first swot mistake, Granger. He’s not the product of my raping you. See this?” he asked as held held up the hand rubbing her stomach.

 

Overwrought and overwhelmed, she merely nodded.

 

“That ‘Malfoy heir indicator’ wasn’t there during or after the Battle of Hogwarts. You should know; you treated my injuries, put Dittany on the cut on my hand yourself when I got back to the Manor. Did you see it? Would you like to use the pensieve to enhance your recall?”

 

Beneath his hand, the baby stilled.

 

“I saw your memories, Draco! Your mother brought them and I saw them!”

“But you never saw that one, did you? Because Mother collected those while I was unconscious — passed-out drunk because the **one** time I tried to care for you — love you — I got a child on you and only recalled  _that_ little insult when sober. Not quite a fair exchange for the gifts you’ve given me, was it? I meant what I said: I’ll never regret our son or that you’re his mother. I think it rather an advantage for him and for me.”

 

That look she gave him brought it all back — the capture, the violations and the losses. Having had extensive practice dealing with her dread, Draco dove into the torrential terror she floundered in.

 

“So let’s deal with your real fears. First, you need to stop worrying that you won’t be able to love our son if he resembles me — and he _will_ resemble me a great deal; already does if that temper is any indication.”

 

His hand, the one sporting the notice that an heir’s arrival was imminent, regained it patterns across her abdomen. Bali’s quiet continued while Draco labored to make things right for them all.

 

“You’ll love him because that’s who you are. You forgave **_me_**. The coward who forced himself on you again and —”

“Draco — stop! Your mother and I —”

“ _SEE?_ " his exclamation cut her's off. _"_ There it is! You get angry but honest hatred just isn’t in your nature. That clockwork calculating machine in your head is controlled by your heart. You’ve never held it against me that I chose rape as the only way to save Mother or you. You’ve done _everything_ you could to make this easier on **me**.”

 

Instinctively his hand palmed even larger circles on her that now encompassed more of her swollen breasts and ducked well beneath the waist of her “pantaloons”.

 

“Where did you go?”

 

The non sequitur caught him off guard.

 

“Go???…”

“When you left after our… Where did you go — and why,” she added after taking her first good look at him, “are you covered in burns, cuts and bruises? Were you fighting?”

“I went to the Leaky — the private drinking room — where Looney Longbottom promptly sent me home to my pregnant partner. As to the bruises, let’s just say I ran into a bludger between the Leaky and the apparation point.”

“Did the bludger have red hair?”

“And brown and black and possibly a blonde — but that looked more like a glamour spell.“

“They ATTACKED you!?”

 

Draco's arm once more pinned her to the bed when outrage drove her to rise and redress Ron's blitz attack on her partner.

 

“Granger, we’ve got enough to work through without a rehash of one of my less than stellar performances as a wizard. If you want details, ask Potter tomorrow. Would apologizing for leaving in the first place speed our getting back on track?”

 

Underneath his father’s broad palm, Bali finally dropped into an exhausted drowsiness leading to sleep.

 

“It wasn’t all your fault, Draco. Don’t think I don’t realize that _that_ particular topic makes you angry.”

“Murderously so. I’m a Slytherin for a reason — and I'm a Malfoy; we're possessive. Have I EVER lied or broken my word to you since my half-hearted attempt to kill Dumbledore?”

“No…”

 

Soft words left room in her confused brain to acknowledge that he’d done nothing but protect her (in his own violating way) since the snatchers captured the trio the first time.

 

“Then why in Merlin’s name will you not accept the fact that I’m not **GOING** anywhere!?”

“I’ve told you why! The Malfoys can’t have a half-blood bastard as an heir!”

 

He slipped that roving hand inside her bloomers to caress the lower half of a very distended tummy then spoke more quietly than before.

 

“I’ve been reading your histories of Muggle Britain. Seems the — ‘royals’ you call them? Seems they place a great deal of stock in bloodlines, inheritance and proper breeding — similar to pure-bloods.”

“What’s that got to do with —”

“Too many gingers and too many blondes, Granger.”

“What???…”

“The paintings. Inheritance says that gingers and blondes come from gingers and blondes unless magic’s involved. There are too many gingers and blondes in the history of royal muggle Britain.”

“Meaning?”

“So you’re not a genius after all?” he teased. “ _Meaning_ more than a few children conceived out of wedlock have inherited royal titles. And royal Britain survived.”

 

Even baby brain couldn’t delay the realization that he was right. No family on Earth was pure by any of the definitions they held dear.

 

“Were we to return to Britain, after a suitable time of your choosing — _married_ and with Bali — the world, the Malfoys and the Blacks would go on. In fact, it’s more likely _I_ would be harassed than you. You are, after all, the true ‘saviour’ of the British wizarding world. Potter had the scar and the soul ‘sliver’ but you had the brains.”

“So you’re saying?…”

“I’m not going anywhere because I don’t _have_ to! Balaur’s magic _proves_ he’s my heir. I don’t care one wit about his so-called heritage except that he’s _yours_ — the son of the witch that saved the world from becoming a very dark place! What better pedigree could the next Malfoy heir have!?”

“Just another manipulative transaction to you…”

“Isn’t that what you’d prefer?" came in a near whisper laced with hurt. "You’ve made it painfully clear you have no desire to explore my feelings for you — or yours for me.”

“Gods! I must be completely mental having this conversation with the man who spent weeks raping me whilst I was held hostage in his dungeons.”

“I would have freed you if I could’ve done so safely…”

 

His roving hand tickled the thick thatch poking out in wild strands between her softened thighs and that gigantic belly. Slow, rhythmic ripples across her expanse communicated their son’s blissful sleep.

 

“I won’t leave you and I won’t let you goad me into going away again — not at the risk of another other-worldly encounter with your lunatic barmaid-cum-healer friend. Is that clear enough?”

 

Had Hermione’s head come with an opening, the gears turning inside would have made audible “clicks” with a rapid meter.

 

“How do I know I’m not feeling dependent on you because I’m terrified of dealing with this — the baby, my life here, some way to support the two of us — alone!? What if I come to despise you when life settles?”

“Afraid you might have feelings for the Death Eater?”

 

Little feet slowly started up again, swishing through the cushioning fluid they floated in.

 

“I don’t know what I feel…”

“And that’s your most pressing issue. You’re not in control of this. You're afraid you might actually care for me and it doesn’t make sense in that excessively busy brain of yours. You’ve finally out-thought yourself — you forgave me and then got to know me and I’m not as bad as you expected.”

“It’s pregnancy hormones…” she lied to them both.

“It’s more than that. But even if it were hormones, don’t we deserve time together to figure it out? To _heal_ together? Why do you insist on disbelieving that I care for you? And for the record? I do. Have for some time.”

 

Everything in the room took on a fuzzy patina as Draco’s fingers tugged her thighs apart and combed through the curly covering he found there, grazing parts of her he’d long since memorized.

 

“Make me prove it to you. Force me to show you and Bali every day that you matter to me… That I’ve grown up and realized that nothing I’d been taught was enough to defeat the brightest witch in Britain…”

 

She considered the genuine risk to Bali of being emotionally mishandled by an off-kilter maternal casualty of the “Second Wizarding War”. Comparing herself with her parenting partner, Draco’s head start on dealing with the war made her own progress difficult to see. 

 

“I can’t be with you that way… yet,” and his hand immediately returned north to more platonic climes.

“I only wanted to help you relax.”

“That would do it, alright,” she chuckled through her exhaustion.

“You have an interesting sense of humor, Granger. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. Can you manage not to wake our little dragon while I grovel with Charlie and Vlad for a room?”

 

A yawn obliterated her answer.

 

“I promise to be quick.”

 

Tenderly he covered her using his own hands (and not magic) before placing his lips to her forehead for a long moment. 

 

She’d helped Harry win but lost everything of value to her — her parents, her future, her virginity, her innocence and her _fearlessness._  The reality of her new life interfered with any post-war healing. In the interstices of drowsing and sleeping, Hermione rededicated herself to returning to her (updated) original life plan from the time when she’d naively thought victory could happen without so many casualties — including her own...

 

“I’ll be here…” came sleepily from her drowsy mouth as she drifted off.


End file.
